


How Hard Could It Be?

by JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle



Series: How Hard Could It Be? [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Coronavirus, Discussion of Homophobia, Jack never went to Samwell, M/M, Mentions of Real Hockey Players, OMG Check Please AU, Quarantine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:41:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24049111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle/pseuds/JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle
Summary: Jack is stuck in Providence under the coronavirus stay-at-home order. He runs across a pie-making video on a YouTuve channel called OMG! Check Please.
Relationships: Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann
Series: How Hard Could It Be? [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1767256
Comments: 336
Kudos: 573





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sections previously posted on [Tumblr](http://justlookfrightened.tumblr.com/post/616490454168551424/how-hard-could-it-be).

**Part 1**

“Yeah, sure, Tater, anytime,” Jack said. “Not like I’m going anywhere, eh? Yeah, okay, tonight at seven. I’ll be there.”

The fact was, Jack really wasn’t up for a game of Zoom Pictionary, but he had an A. He had to stay involved with the team, even though he was pretty sure this season was over. If he didn’t, he’d have Marty and Thirdy to answer to.

And if Marty actually retired, there was talk that they’d give Jack a C, too, instead of being one of three A’s. He’d tried to nip it, gone to Thirdy and apologized that anyone had said it, even if it wasn’t Jack, and found out that Thirdy was the one who started it in the first place.

“We all know you’re the face of the franchise, man, and not just because you’re pretty,” Thirdy said. “I’ll wear the A ’til I retire, as long as the team wants me to, but we both know that’s not going to be too many more years. Making you captain is just recognizing reality. The young guys look up to you, us old farts respect you … of course you’re the leader.”

Maybe Marty wouldn’t retire after the truncated season, Jack thought. Maybe he’d stay one more year, try to end on a high note instead of in this weird limbo.

Jack could only hope.

He turned back to his laptop and unmuted it, but the video he’d been watching on the best ways to cook chicken breast had given way to something else.

The voice that came from the laptop speakers had a warm drawl, and the hands on the screen were weaving something, making a basket pattern over a … pie, definitely a cherry pie. The dark red of the cherries offered a good contrast to the pale pie dough, and the cherry juice that stuck to the back of the strips as the man folded them back made it easy to see what he was doing.

“Now, a lot of folks are afraid of doing a lattice top because it looks complicated,” the man said. He had just laid a new strip of dough horizontally across the pie, and he was taking the strips that were folded down – every other one of the vertical strips – and flipping them over the new horizontal strip. “It’s really easy once you know how.”

Then he folded down the other vertical strips – the ones that were under the last horizontal one – and added another horizontal strip before folding them back.

Jack knew he should turn the video off. There was no way he was ever going to make a pie. He hardly ever ate desserts anyway, and never fruit pie. There was the fat in pie crust, all the sugar – it wasn’t worth it. He had one piece of tarte au sucre when he went home for Christmas, if he went home for Christmas, and that was that.

But the man’s hands – strong, square hands with neat nails and no rings – kept moving and he kept talking as the pattern took shape.

“This is a real simple pattern, of course,” he was saying. “You can do it all sorts of ways. I like a braided edge, but that takes a bit of practice.”

The pie was finished, and the hands slid it into what looked like an old oven. The picture cut to a young guy – well, Jack would have assumed that from the voice – holding up a pie identical to the one that had just gone into the oven. His eyes were warm and brown, his hair was the color of the now-golden pie crust, and his smile was wide.

“This is the way it looks when it’s done,” he said. “See, don’t you think it looks like I put a lot of effort in? And if your first few attempts come out a little wonky, that’s okay. Everything takes practice, and besides, the people you want to impress will just know how hard you’re willing to work.

“If you try it, I’d love to see how it turns out,” the man continues. “Go ahead and send a picture. And of course, if you made it this far, please hit the like button and think about subscribing.”

Jack scrolled down and hit the thumbs up button before looking further.

The video had been posted by OMG! Check Please two years ago and had been watched over 100,000 times.

The account had about 10,000 subscribers, and there were plenty of comments, some complimentary, some with practical questions. Jack read through the first couple of pages before checking his cupboards.

He had flour, salt and a bag of apples. The spice rack that Maman had insisted on when he moved in had cinnamon – something that was included in most of the apple pie recipes he found in a quick Google search. But he didn’t have any real butter or shortening, which apparently he would need.

Jack pulled his chicken breasts out to thaw and placed an order for butter and shortening to be picked up curbside. More apples, too, he decided. He put the chicken breasts back in the freezer and added frozen chicken tenders and frozen broccoli to his grocery order.

An hour later, he grabbed a clean mask off the hook by the door, pulled a cap down above his eyes, and headed to the market.

At least this was giving him a reason to get out, start his car and try something new, all in one day. One day in a string of days that were starting to all feel the same. If he watched and listened to OMG! Check Please another two (or three) times while he waited, well, that was just preparing himself.

How hard could this be?

* * *

**Part 2**

Four hours later, Jack and his kitchen were both covered with flour. The pie, such as it was, was in the oven. Jack had a trash bin filled with apple peels, which took a surprising amount of the apple flesh with them, and apple cores. There was also a complete recipe’s worth of pie dough, which had gone all gray and crumbly somewhere around the third or fourth time Jack had tried to roll it out.

By that time, Jack had watched OMG! Check Please’s tutorials on making and rolling out pie dough. He made it look so easy.

Sure, when it came to making the pie dough, he used a tool that Jack had never seen before, something like four or five curved blades attached to a handle, that he called a pastry blender. But he said you could also blend your butter and shortening – the fats that made pie crust so unhealthy – into the flour and salt mixture with your hands, and demonstrated that. So Jack had washed his hands for the maybe twenty-fifth time that day and dove in.

It felt good. The butter and shortening were still cold, and the texture of the flour was velvety. But Jack wasn’t sure when to stop, because it never did look exactly like it did in the video. Then he drizzled ice water over the mixture, just the way OMG! Check Please did, but it didn’t seem like it could possibly be wet enough, so he added an extra tablespoon.

He gathered the dough into two balls to wrap in plastic and refrigerate the way he was instructed and turned his attention to the apples, which were another problem entirely.

Once they were peeled, sliced and mixed with a some sugar, flour, a touch of lemon juice and cinnamon and nutmeg, his hands were aching. It was time to roll the dough out, somethng else OMG! Check Please made look easy.

But the dough stuck to the plastic wrap, and then to the counter. Jack tried putting flour under it, but then it stuck to the rolling pin he had never, ever used before. He tried flouring that, too, but the dough just kept sticking to everything, and the more he tried to fix it by patching holes and pushing the edges of torn places back together, the worse it got.

He finally gave up. He searched for other tutorials, but all of them said to do it more or less the same way – at least, the ones that didn’t say to use a food processor. Like he had a food processor.

So he went back to OMG! Check Please’s video, and tried to follow the directions exactly.

He still didn’t think the dough turned out the way it was supposed to, but it wasn’t as gloppy as it had been the first time. It was more crumbly than the first time he had made it, but it did roll flat. Until he tried to roll it around the pin to pick it up and put it in the pie plate, a last minute purchase from the grocery store along with the rolling pin. Then it kind of fell apart.

Jack grimaced and moved the rolling pin with its tattered crust over the pie plate and dropped it in, then did his best to arrange the dough to cover the dish with his fingers, tearing off extra bits of dough that hung over the side and using them to patch the bottom.

He poured the sliced apples in, then eyed the second disk of dough. He still had to weave the lattice top, which was the point of this whole exercise.

Jack cursed himself for starting this and rolled the dough.

To his surprise, the second disk rolled more evenly and stuck less than the first. He had to ransack his desk to find a ruler to cut even strips. OMG! Check Please had said this was easy, but Jack didn’t really trust his judgment anymore.

The lattice came together more easily than he would have expected given the struggle he went through for everything else. Sure, it was uneven in the end, and he clearly had to mend a few (most of) the strips because they broke when he tried to transfer them from the work surface to the pie, and the edge was a mess, but it was a pie.

And it was in the oven, and Jack had a half-hour to clean up and get the flour out of his hair before Pictionary with the team. Great.

* * *

Part 3

Jack was clean if a bit damp when he settled in front of his laptop screen at the breakfast bar, brushing the hair that was too long and starting to curl off his forehead.

“You working out again?” Tater said when Jack’s face popped into the box. “You just shower? I know you don’t have girl there.”

“Haha,” Jack said. “No, I just wanted a shower.”

“What, Jack’s turning into a clean freak?” Thirdy piped in. “He always was Mr. Clean anyway.”

“Yeah, what’s the use of having young, single teammates if you can’t live vicariously through their exploits?” Marty groused, half chuckling at the same time. “The only deets I get from you is how many shots you took into that net you have set up in your garage.”

Jack shrugged.

“Maybe I just like keeping my personal life, you know, personal,” Jack said.

“I spend too much time with you on roadies,” Tater said, shaking his head sadly. “We know you, Zimmboni. What’s that saying? You see what you get?”

“What you see is what you get,” Marty said.

More and more boxes appeared until there were 15 people on the call, almost everyone who was still in the area. Jack wasn’t sure about how this whole Pictionary thing would work, but he was glad the team had Tater to play social director. That was one thing he didn’t have to worry about.

“Okay, everyone here?” Tater said. “This is how we do it –”

“Don’t we just get a word and draw it?” Poots piped in.

“Yes, Little Poots,” Tater said. “We get word and draw. But we draw on our computer screen so everyone can see.”

Draw on the screen with a mouse? Ugh.

“Teammates take turns drawing,” Tater said. “Teammates guess, and if they get it before time is up, their team gets the point. No dirty pictures, though.”

“What are the teams?” Jack asked, just as his oven timer beeped.

“Christ, Jack, mute yourself,” Snowy said.

“I was talking,” Jack said. “Be right back.”

He got up to take the pie out of the oven. It still didn’t look like the one OMG! Check Please made – the lattice weave was open on one side and pushed together at the other, and the edge was crumbled and brown. He set it on the worktop behind him to cool.

Silence greeted him when he sat down in front of the laptop again.

“Jack,” Marty asked gently. “What’s that?”

“A pie?” Jack said, feeling his cheeks warm for reasons he didn’t quite understand.

“We said no girls there,” Tater said, sounding confused.

“No?” Jack said. “I made it.”

“You made a whole pie?” Marty said. “For yourself?”

“Yes?” Jack said, aware that fourteen sets of eyes were trying to see around him to the pie on the counter, steam gently rising from the gaps in the lattice.

“It’s just that Jack, I can count on one hand the times you’ve gone off your nutrition plan in the last six years if it wasn’t a cheat day,” Thirdy said. “But you’re supposed to be home alone, and you made a whole pie. For yourself?”

“I have a freezer,” Jack said.

“You have GrubHub and Uber Eats too,” Thirdy said. “If you wanted pie, you could have ordered yourself a slice. You actually made a whole pie?”

“There was this video …” Jack started, then realized he couldn’t really explain why he’d been so taken by OMG! Check Please, just that the light, drawling voice and the strong hands and their sure, repetitive motions settled him in a way nothing else had for a few days, and he wanted to see if he could get the same feeling making a pie for himself.

“I just felt like doing something new,” he finally continued. “And I don’t think you can make just one slice of pie, eh?”

That drew chuckles from a few of his teammates. Tater pouted and said, “But I get no pie. You have to make another one, after.”

“If I get good enough at it, Tater, I will,” Jack said.

The game proceeded in fits and starts with way too many pictures that looked like dicks. Jack’s team won, but that might have had more to do with Thirdy not caring at all who won and Marty being called away to soothe one of his daughters who was having a hard time sleeping. Jack’s team actually concentrated under his watchful eye.

“Good game, guys,” Jack congratulated them at the end.

“What do we get for winning?” Tater asked. “Jack will make us all pie?”

“That’s probably more of a punishment,” Thirdy said.

“Haha.”

Jack left the meeting and looked at his pie. It had stopped steaming, and the crust had caved in just a little. Still, it might be cool enough to try a slice.

Before cutting into it, Jack picked up his phone and snapped a picture. OMG! Check Please did say he wanted photos, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 4**

Bitty sat down at MooMaw’s table and scrolled through the OMG! Check Please email account before setting up to film his next video: blueberry scones, because he had blueberries and had already done blueberry pie (several times) and several variations on blueberry muffins. Twenty-two years old and he was tapped out.

Not really, he knew. It was just, he’d planned to take his videos in a new direction -- a couple of new directions -- and then this pandemic hit and he was stranded in Georgia. At least he was staying at MooMaw’s. As soon as it looked like schools in Monroe County were going to close and people were going to be advised to stay home as much as possible, he’d volunteered to move into MooMaw’s spare room.

“I can help her out and run any errands that she needs,” Bitty had earnestly explained to his parents. “And you won’t have to worry about the wifi bandwidth with me doing my classes and Coach teaching and Mama working.”

And Bitty could be out from under his parents’ watchful eyes.

“Dicky?” MooMaw said. “You planning to bake today? ‘Cause if you aren’t, I might make a chess pie.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bitty said. “But just scones. Won’t take long. You want to do the pie first and I’ll do the scones after? Kitchen gets nice light for taping in the afternoon.”

“Fine by me,” MooMaw said. “I never thought I’d learn to make scones. Always seemed like something fancy people would eat.”

“You can help,” Bitty said. “Be in the video and everything. But scones aren’t hard to do. I was hoping to do some videos with real challenges -- the kind you see on those baking shows? -- but now I can’t get everything I’d need. So scones it is.”

Bitty stopped and considered.

“Maybe first, though, we should do a video with the chess pie?” he said. “If you don’t mind me helping, that is.”

“Sounds like fun,” MooMaw said. “Just let me go put my face on.”

“Take your time,” Bitty said, as MooMaw headed for the hall bathroom. “We’ve got plenty of it.”

No, this was not how Bitty planned for his senior year of college to end. He had planned to find a job in New York or Boston or somewhere in the Northeast, somewhere he could put his communication skills to work. If it involved food, even better.

Then he was going to work on making the vlog even bigger than it was, with baking challenges and new techniques. But he was going to make a library of videos about the basics for beginners, too. That was something he could do, at least. Once he finished classes and graduated.

Even if there was no graduation.

As he scrolled through his email notifications, one caught his eye.

“Pie picture,” the subject line said. It was from a jlz1993, not one of Bitty’s regular correspondents. He’d done the video asking for lattice pictures, what, two years ago? He’d recorded it in the Haus kitchen.

Bitty opened the email to see … well, if a pie could be sad, it was a sad pie. A little misshapen, a little overdone, not just on the edges but all over. The lattice was woven, but unevenly. It was an apple pie, not the most common choice for a lattice, but not really wrong. Did this person want advice?

The text of the message read,

_Hello._

_You asked for people to send you pictures of their pies, so here it is. It’s the first pie I ever made. I was surprised how difficult it was to get right. Anyway, I wanted to thank you for teaching me, even though it was only on YouTube._

_jlz_

Huh. For some poor soul out there, that was what a homemade pie looked like. Bitty wondered what it tasted like. Probably not actually bad … but it could be better. Maybe Bitty could help. Encourage this jlz to try again, make some progress. Surely Bitty could help him make a better pie than that.

* * *

**Part 5**

“Dicky? You ready?”

MooMaw was decked out to bake in a purple pantsuit, hair teased and sprayed, red lipstick in place. Bitty’s mother had been known to shake her head and roll her eyes behind MooMaw’s back, but MooMaw just winked and stage-whispered to Bitty that she was old enough to dress how she wanted.

“Uh, one minute,” Bitty said. “I just need to answer this one email before I forget. Maybe you can get the ingredients out?”

So while MooMaw bustled around the kitchen placing flour and sugar and cornmeal on the table, just on the other side of Bitty’s laptop, Bitty thought about what to say. Jlz had said this was their first pie; they seemed kind of proud of it. So Bitty had to be encouraging.

_Dear jlz,_

_Thanks for sharing your pie picture with me! I can tell you put a lot of work into it. Pie can be tricky, and I know it takes some determination. I hope it tasted as great as you thought it would, or even better!_

_If you wanted to make another pie one day, I’d be happy to give you some tips. Feel free to email me again and tell me what kind of pie you want to make, and maybe what parts you found difficult to get right, and I’ll see what I can do._

Bitty thought about signing it with his name – now that he was trying to make the vlog a moneymaker, he’d scrubbed the overly personal posts of his early years, and he knew it wouldn’t take more than a quick Google search to come up with his name anyway. But jlz seemed okay not revealing too much, and Bitty didn’t want to make them feel like he was pushing, even subtly.

It didn’t matter, anyway. Bitty would never hear from them again, he was ninety percent sure. It was just someone who got bored in quarantine, and would soon move on to a jigsaw puzzle or take up yodeling to annoy the neighbors.

MooMaw had just put down the vinegar and was rooting in the fridge for the eggs and butter when Bitty hit send and moved the laptop out of the way.

“I’m gonna set one camera here, and that’s the one I’m gonna talk to,” Bitty said. “So if you want the camera to see your face, look that way. The one on the table will focus on what we’re doing. I’ll edit it together later. Ready to become a YouTube star?”

MooMaw was an able baker in her own right, and she and Bitty baked well together. Of course they did; she taught him everything he knew. Or at least, the fundamentals of everything he knew.

They worked companionably, Bitty making a point of explaining to the camera why they put foil and dried beans in the crust when they blind baked it, and why the vinegar was so important even though the recipe only called for a small amount.

MooMaw talked about how she had wooed PawPaw with chess pie.

“Did you really?” Bitty said. “And he fell for you because he liked your pie?”

“Well, I like to think he liked more than that,” MooMaw said with a wink. “But he did like the pie. Enough to come calling again, at least.”

“Baking is good for making friends,” Bitty said. “Did I ever tell you I brought a pie to my first Samwell hockey meeting? I still think that was what saved me when they realized I couldn’t take a check to save my life. And those boys ended up being my best friends.”

“I always hoped baking would help you find a special someone up north when you were at that college of yours,” MooMaw said.

“Not yet,” Bitty said, managing a smile for the camera. “But maybe someday.”

When the pie was in the oven, Bitty turned off the cameras and cleaned up. That was the part no one would ever want to watch.

“Can you stay around for the reveal shot when it comes out of the oven?” Bitty asked. “Then I’ll start the scones.I’d love for you to help, but you don’t have to.”

“Nonsense, of course I’ll help,” MooMaw said. “That way you get to teach me something. If you give me the recipe, I’ll get the ingredients out.”

“It’s on my laptop,” Bitty said. “Wait –”

He shut off the water and dried his hands.

“Let me call it up for you,”

When he brought the laptop back to life, there was already an email notification from jlz.

“I’ll be,” Bitty said to himself. “Wasn’t expecting that.”

* * *

**Part 6**

Bitty sat at his computer again after washing the supper dishes.

The pie was safely in the fridge, and the scones wrapped on the counter. He would divide them and send portions home with Mama tomorrow when she dropped off food from the market. He just had to remember to put them on the porch before she arrived.

Bitty knew Mama and Coach thought the whole sheltering-in-place thing was a bit much, and that it wouldn’t matter if they came in and visited. Bitty had seen enough simulations about how the virus traveled from Ransom to make it clear to him that the safest thing for MooMaw would be to see as few people as possible. That was one reason he volunteered to stay with her; if he could avoid going to the market himself, and stop the relatives from coming in, that would have to help.

Oddly enough, MooMaw understood.

“When I was a girl and a house was quarantined, they meant quarantined,” she said. “None of this running to the store or putting gas in the tank. This will pass, but I’m not ready to yet.”

With Mama doing the marketing, Bitty could get baking supplies – at least the ones that were still available in stores. And she’d even brought him a six pack of Bud Light, because, she said, “I know you and your friends enjoyed a beer from time to time.”

Bitty had managed not to grimace and thanked her. Bud Light really couldn’t be worse than Natty Light, could it?

He opened the bottle and turned to the new email from jlz – or Jack, as the email was signed.

_Dear OMGCP,_

_Thanks for offering to help. I have no real experience baking. I think I made a cake once with my mom, maybe eight or nine years ago, but it was from a box. It just seemed like it would be a good thing to make something with my own hands, and your videos made it look like something I could do. I guess they were right, because I did make a pie, but I think it could be better._

_It tasted all right, but the apples got kind of mushy, and the filling didn’t have much taste. The crust didn’t have all the little layers yours had. It was like one, flat piece. But it was really hard to roll out because it kept sticking to the rolling pin or to the counter underneath. It took me four hours to come up with a pie – I threw the first batch of dough out – but my friends saw it on a video call and now they want me to make them pie when this is over._

_Do you think you can help me make one that’s better than the first one?_

_Jack_

Bitty took a pull of his beer and considered.

“MooMaw,” he finally called. “How did you teach me to make pie crust? I don’t really remember.”

“I just gave you a bit of dough,” MooMaw said from her chair in front of the TV. “And I let you roll it out after I finished rolling what I needed. We’d use it to cut out shapes to decorate the top once you did it right. Then I’d have you do all the rolling, and of course by then you’d seen me mix the ingredients dozens of times so you knew what to do and what it should be like before you rolled it out.”

“So back to front?” Bitty said. “Starting at the last step?”

“I suppose,” MooMaw said. “Mind, by then you were measuring and fetching and helping mix things too, but it seemed silly to have you start something and then take it out of your hands. You wanted to finish it and be proud of it.”

That wouldn’t exactly work with Jack, because it wasn’t like Bitty could get things started and let him take over.

But Jack had produced some kind of a usable dough; maybe that was enough.

Bitty bit his lip and thought. It would be easier if he knew more about Jack: was he a grandpa? a teenager? He didn’t write like a teenager, and he sent actual emails instead of DMs, but probably not a family man because he mentioned that his friends wanted pie. Was he in the south? Or maybe the midwest? Or even in the United States?

Well, it probably didn’t matter. He had the time, ingredients and desire to make pie. Of course Bitty would help.

 _Dear Jack,_ he wrote,

_I’ll do my best to help, but please understand that some things just take practice to get right, and the right materials. If your apples didn’t keep their shape as they baked, it was probably because of the variety. You can look up which ones are best for baking, but golden delicious are good and almost always available. DO NOT use red delicious. You’ll be disappointed._

_As for the dough, you mentioned it stuck to the rolling pin. If the rolling pin is new, or hasn’t been used for some time, it might need to be seasoned with oil, like a wooden cutting board or salad bowl. When you roll the dough out, start at the center and roll out to the edge, pick up the pin and come back to the center, and roll another direction. I know I said that it my video, but it bears repeating_.

_As to the consistency of the dough, try to make it maybe not quite as wet as you think it should be. Even a tablespoon too much water makes a difference._

_I am impressed that you made a lattice on your first attempt!_

_Happy baking!_

_Eric Bittle_


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 7**

Jack made himself wait until after he finished his morning workout to open the second email from OMG! Check Please.

He scanned it quickly, noting the name at the bottom before reading the text.

Eric. Eric Bittle.

Jack thought it suited the man he’d seen in the videos.

Then he read the advice, and started making a mental list. Apples. Golden delicious. He could do that. Some kind of oil for the rolling pin. He’d have to Google what to get. He had enough butter and shortening for at least one more pie, but he’d need more soon. Was he seriously going to make more than one more pie?

Bittle said making a good pie took practice, so, yes, he thought. Maybe his neighbors in the building would want some? If his pies turned out well enough. He could leave them in front of people’s doors and knock before walking away.

No, that would be creepy. Maybe the doorman could help find takers?

Jack placed an order for five pounds of golden delicious apples and, for his rolling pin, a bottle of mineral oil … that was classified as a laxative? Better not use too much.

Even if Jack had to wait for the grocery delivery to make the filling and roll out the crust, he could start making the dough now. Bittle said to chill it before rolling it out, even overnight. Bittle also said it might take several times to get it right. This would give him time to do it over if he needed to.

Jack called up Bittle’s YouTube page to look for the pie dough tutorial and saw a new video had been posted, the first one in a month.

The preview window showed Bittle with an older woman, shorter than he was, in a bright purple outfit and the same warm smile.

Jack clicked on it.

“Hey, y’all!” Bittle said, with a cheery wave. “I’m coming to you today from my MooMaw’s kitchen, with MooMaw herself as my special guest. It’s been a hectic few weeks, what with having to pack up and leave school and come home, and then moving in here to stay with MooMaw. But I should have more time now because I’m all set up and I’m _this close_ to being done with my thesis.

“Now, some of y’all might know that I learned to bake in this very room. I’m riding out the shelter-at-home period here, so you’ll be seeing a lot of it.

“I planned to do blueberry scones this afternoon, and I will, a little later on. For now we’re going to help MooMaw with a chess pie.”

Jack had no idea what a chess pie was, but he sat and watched anyway. It was a chance to watch Bittle roll out the crust under his grandmother’s watchful eye, to see the obvious affection in the way they worked together.

The pie didn’t even have the small redeeming value of a fruit filling. The inside seemed to be like tarte au sucre, mostly sugar and eggs, with a bit of cornmeal and vinegar thrown in for reasons Jack couldn’t fathom.

Bittle and his grandmother were getting close to putting the pie in the oven when MooMaw — Jack was sure she had a name, but Bittle hadn’t mentioned it — said she’d caught her husband’s interest with a chess pie way back when.

That piece of information seemed to delight Bittle, who agreed that baking could bring people together.

“Did I ever tell you I brought a pie to my first Samwell hockey meeting?” Bittle said. “I still think that was what saved me when they realized I couldn’t take a check to save my life. And those boys ended up being my best friends.”

Wait. What?

Bittle played hockey?

Jack almost missed the rest of the conversation. MooMaw was talking again.

“I always hoped baking would help you find a special someone up north when you were at that college of yours,” MooMaw said.

“Not yet,” Bitty said, managing a smile for the camera. “But maybe someday.”

That college — Samwell, Bittle said — was in Massachusetts, not an hour’s drive from Providence. And while Jack didn’t pay much attention to NCAA hockey these days, he had an impression they were pretty good.

He kept watching while Bittle took time to explain that the vinegar helped keep the pie from being too sweet, and the cornmeal gave the custard a chewier texture than most similar pies.

“Without the cornmeal, it just isn’t a chess pie,” he said.

Then the video cut to the reveal of the finished pie, and Bittle was directing viewers to the link to the recipe, along with coconut and lemon variations.

As soon as the video ended, Jack was opening a new browser window and searching for Eric Bittle, who played hockey at Samwell University.

* * *

**Part 8**

“Marty, I think I’m a stalker.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone for a moment. Then, “What? What are you talking about?”

“Remember the pie?” Jack said. “From the other night. I baked another one.”

Jack had finally baked a second pie, after spending a good chunk of the day going down the rabbit hole that was Eric Bittle’s online presence. His search took him first to the official Samwell Men’s Hockey website, which told him that not only was Eric Bittle on the team, he had been its captain. And the team was doing very well, a lock for the playoffs with a decent chance of going all the way.

He found videos of their games and saw Bittle – unmistakable on the ice for his size, speed and graceful skating style – set up his teammates with near impossible passes time after time.

Once the other teams gave up on him shooting, he would tuck the puck in a corner of the net himself.

If he had a weakness, it was his defense, which was pesky rather than physical. He would harass the opposing players, hoping to distract them so that he could neatly swipe the puck away from them and head the other direction. He succeeded often enough, and his offensive gifts were good enough, that he was clearly more of an asset than a liability.

He would be fun to be on a line with.

His interviews showed a positive outlook, although some of that could have been media training. Even in the interview he gave the Samwell school paper when the rest of the season was canceled avoided self-pity or any sort of moroseness.

“We’ve had a good season,” Bittle told the reporter. “And of course we all would have loved to see how far we could take it, but right now we all want to get home to our families and make sure everyone stays as safe as possible. I know we’ll always look back on this year with fondness.”

There was nothing about looking forward to getting back on the ice, Jack realized, because for Bittle – for all the seniors on his team, for most of the seniors playing anywhere, any sport – that was it. Their final seasons were cut short and they were done.

Fuck. He would have liked to see what Bittle could do in person, to drive down to Samwell to catch a game, sitting near the back of the arena, cap pulled low so he wouldn’t be recognized.

That was when he resolutely closed the window and went back to making pie. That, at least, was something Bittle wanted people to watch and learn from, something Bittle had encouraged Jack to do, even if he didn’t really know who Jack was.

“You think you’re a stalker because you made a pie?” Marty asked.

“Two pies,” Jack said. “There’s this guy who has a baking channel on YouTube, and I ran across it the other day and I made a pie.”

“Okay,” Marty said. “Isn’t that what the channel is there for? To teach people to make something?”

“Yeah, I know,” Jack said, wondering if he should have called someone else. Marty was rock-steady and had been both a mentor and friend to Jack for years, but this was embarrassing. “But then I emailed him with a picture, like he asked for, and asked a couple of questions, and he sent me some advice, and I tried again.”

“A picture of … he asked for a picture of you?”

“No, the pie,” Jack said. “He doesn’t know who I am. But then he signed his name to his email, and he played college hockey, and I looked him up, and now I know all this stuff about him – you wouldn’t believe how fast he skates, and his _hands_ – and he just knows my name is Jack and I’m a baking disaster.”

“Did you, like, try to find social media accounts?” Marty said. “I mean ones not linked to his YouTube channel. Or find out where he is, or stuff you think he’d want to keep hidden?”

“No,” Jack said. “Of course not. I was just on the hockey team page and watched some game footage. And the school paper, I guess.”

“I don’t think that counts as stalking, bud,” Marty said. “You’re a fan, not a stalker. I guarantee that probably hundreds of his hockey team fans have seen all that.”

“But he doesn’t know I know he plays hockey,” Jack said.

“How did you find out?”

“He mentioned it in a video,” Jack said.

“So it’s not something private,” Marty said. “People look at shit like that about us – about you – all the time. You think all your fans are stalkers?”

“No, but … it just feels weird, y’know?”

* * *

**Part 9**

After Jack ended the call with Marty, he looked at the pie cooling on the counter with a critical eye.

It did look better than the first one. It wasn’t as lopsided, for one thing, and the weave on the lattice was neater. The crust was a little dark around the edges, but most of it seemed a more pleasing tan color.

He couldn’t really say if the filling was any better until he tried it.

Well, the first thing to do was take a picture. He’d told Bittle he intended to make another pie, and he had, so he would send a new picture.

Bittle hadn’t asked for another picture, though. Would he find it strange that some person he didn’t know kept sending him pictures of pies?

While Jack thought about it, he went back and watched the video with Bittle, his grandmother and the chess pie again, and he was again drawn in by Bittle’s easy way of talking while he worked, how he drew his grandmother– his MooMaw, he called her – into what sounded like a genuine conversation. By the end, Jack had decided to send the picture. Bittle said baked goods helped him make friends, so he wasn’t likely to turn his nose up at a picture of a pie, was he?

And Bittle threw it out there in the middle of the video that he played hockey at Samwell, like he expected regular viewers to know that, so it was probably fine that Jack looked up the hockey team. If Jack was impressed by Bittle, that was fine. If Jack was maybe a little fascinated by Bittle, well, he wasn’t hurting anyone. Not Bittle, at least.

And if Bittle left school to go home (to somewhere in the American south, it seemed like, judging by his and his grandmother’s matching accents), maybe he would be bored and looking for a friend, too.

Bittle already had friends, though. He said his teammates were his best friends, which … well, Jack got that. Even if they were scattered around the country now, they could connect over the internet. Bittle was probably good at that.

Bittle also apparently still had a thesis to work on.

But Bittle liked to bake, and he liked talking about baking, and maybe his team didn’t talk about baking so much. And Jack was happy to get him to talk about that. Although Jack would be happy to talk to him about hockey, too, or what it was like to suddenly find himself at home with nothing but his workouts on his calendar.

Jack was an introvert. He always had been. When the season had screeched to a halt and instructions came to go home and stay there, he hadn’t even seriously considered going to his parents’ house in Montreal. Partly because he knew he could be a vector of the virus, but also because that wasn’t his home. Hadn’t been for years.

Now he found that he missed seeing people. He was a little envious of his teammates who had hunkered down with partners. At least they had another person they could touch, even if having someone else in your space all day was a bit much.

Bittle didn’t seem to have a partner like that, but he had his grandmother to keep him company.

He knew the guys with kids were living a different kind of quarantine, one filled with tears and temper tantrums as well as bonding time and board games and no possibility of a trip to the playground or ice cream parlor as a distraction. He wondered what that was like.

He opened a new email, typed _Improvement_ in the subject line, and inserted the photo.

Then he typed:

_Hi, Eric._

_I tried to take all of your advice when I tried again, and I think it worked much better. The dough wasn’t nearly as sticky with a little less water, and it didn’t stick to the rolling pin, either. I still don’t think it looks as good as yours, and I did have to roll the bottom crust out twice, but I’m getting better. Practice makes perfect, eh?_

Jack paused, took a deep breath, and plunged on.

_When I went to your YouTube channel to watch the pie crust tutorial again, I saw the new video you posted, and when I heard you played hockey at Samwell, I looked up the team. I hope you don’t mind me saying that I was really impressed with the whole team, but especially with your speed, your hands and the way you see the ice. It’s a shame you couldn’t finish the season._

_I plan to keep working on my pie skills. Some of my friends asked me to make them pie after quarantine, so I want to get better. Do you mind if I keep asking you questions? If it’s a bother, I can stop._

_Thanks for your help so far._

_Jack Zimmermann_


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 10**

“I don’t know, Lardo, should I ask him?”

Bitty lay on the bed in MooMaw’s small guest room, the lace curtains fluttering at the open window. MooMaw had taken advantage of the nice weather to get into the garden and do some cleaning up.

“You should get some fresh air, too, Dicky,” she said. “We have to stay away from people, but that doesn’t mean you can’t poke your nose out the door. Get some exercise, even.”

“I know,” Bitty told MooMaw. “I have some stuff to take care of on the vlog and then I’ll come out. Save the heavy stuff for me.”

“The day I can’t pull a few weeds …” MooMaw muttered under her breath, but a few peeks out the window showed that she was raking the winter detritus into piles and pruning the annuals, leaving the waste for him to move. The grass was probably ready to be mowed, too.

But he kept staring at the email in the vlog mailbox, the one from jlz1993 who had become his most dedicated correspondent over the last 72 hours.

This time, it wasn’t the picture of the pie that drew his interest, although it was markedly better than the first one. It was the signature at the bottom.

“I mean, Jack Zimmermann has got to be a pretty common name,” Bitty said. “There’s a lawyer in California named Jack Zimmermann, a newspaper columnist in Missouri, a high school swimmer in Ohio …”

“So you’ve at least done a Google search?” Lardo said. “And at the top of the list was Jack Zimmermann, hockey player? Brah, Shits is going to have a fit when he hears about this.”

“You can’t tell him!” Bitty said. “At least not yet. It probably isn’t Jack Zimemrmann the hockey player anyway. He bakes.”

“So what, Bits? You’re a hockey player and you bake,” Lardo said.

“Not anymore,” Bitty said. “I was a hockey player. Around here I’d be lucky to find a beer league that would take me, once there are beer leagues again. Did you know Chicago has a whole group just for gay hockey players? Anyway, I’m more of a baker who played hockey.”

“You won’t have to live there forever,” Lardo said. “You can come stay with Shitty and me to look for a job when things open up again. You’re welcome to the couch as long as you want it.”

“I know,” Bitty said. “And it was generous of y’all to offer to have me stay when the Haus closed, but Mama and Coach wanted me here, and you know having someone on the couch indefinitely … I didn’t want to be underfoot.”

“I get it, Bits, and it’s good for your MooMaw that you’re there,” Lardo said gently. “You didn’t hurt our feelings. But back to the topic at hand. You can’t say he’s not Jack-Zimmermann-the-hockey-player because he bakes, because you are, or at least were, a hockey player who baked. And you said he didn’t even know how to bake anything the first time he made a pie, which was why it was such a mess.”

“I don’t know, Lardo,” Bitty said. “I can’t really see it, y’know? If he is the Providence Falconers’ Jack Zimmermann, he’s like this amazing athlete in his 20s. Shouldn’t he have better things to do than learn to make pie? Like conditioning and practicing and, I don’t know, playing in video game tournaments? He writes like he’s sixty years old.”

“Dude, you know like Shitty’s a Falconers fan? Because fuck the Bruins. So I’ve seen Zimmermann’s interviews. The guy has zero affect. Like totally flat,” Lardo said. “And he never talks about anything besides hockey.”

“He did talk about hockey in the email,” Bitty said. “But maybe he’s just a fan, and it would be, like, really awkward to ask, ‘Hey, are you Jack Zimmermann the hockey player?’ and have him say, ‘No, I’m an accountant but I coach the house league peewee team at the local rink.’”

“Brah,” Lardo said. “You’re way overthinking this.”

“Lardo, have you seen Jack Zimmermann? The hockey player, I mean?”

“Yes,” Lardo said. “I know he’s like a hockey god or whatever, and if Shitty was gay I’d be a little jealous of how he talks about Zimmermann’s ass. But whether it’s just some guy who likes watching hockey or an NHL star doesn’t matter, Bits. He’s just a person who wants to learn to bake and apparently felt like he could connect with you after watching your YouTube channel. It’s up to you to decide if you want to keep communicating with him or not, and if you do, it’s totally fair to ask for a little more info, given everything he knows about you. Or not, I guess, but it’s your call.”

“I guess,” Bitty said.

“So how’s your thesis going?” Lardo asked, clearly looking for a change of subject.

* * *

**Part 11**

Bitty made himself work on his thesis before answering email or doing any work on the vlog.

Which meant he looked up other baking videos on YouTube to see how they compared to his and if he could steal any ideas. Then he started looking up hockey videos, and he saw Jack Zimmermann score some sweet goals and give some really awkward interviews.

Then again, did it matter that much what Jack Zimmermann said when he was in the locker room after a game, still sweaty and pink-faced with nothing on his top half but a skin-tight Under Armor shirt?

It probably wasn’t the same Jack Zimmermann anyway.

Bitty closed the computer resolutely, slipped on his sneakers and went outside to help MooMaw.

Bitty first got the wheelbarrow to pick up the piles of weeds and dead leaves and grass that MooMaw had left scattered around the flowerbeds and took them behind the shed to the mulch heap. Then he grabbed a rake to help.

“Get everything you needed to do done?” she asked. “Is the blueberry scone video up?”

“No,” Bitty said. “I talked to my friend Lardo for a while, and she guilted me into working on my thesis.”

“And you made progress on that?”

“No,” Bitty said, and huffed a breath. “I’ll have to work on it later. It’s almost done. I just need to check the citations and give it a last read, but I guess for me that’s the most boring part? There’s nothing new, or shouldn’t be, and my advisor wants it by the end of the week, latest. She’s already given me an extension.”

“That doesn’t sound so hard,” MooMaw said.

“It’s not, really,” Bitty said. “My friend Nursey -- Derek, from the hockey team? -- he read it over to make sure the grammar was all right, and Dex helped me copy over everything I needed for the citations before we came home. And all my other classes are done. It’s just making myself sit down and do it.”

“What happens when you try?” MooMaw asked.

“I look at YouTube for an hour and then come help with the yard work,” Bitty said, giving an extra long swipe with his rake.

“If you were your mother, I’d send you inside to finish your homework before mucking about out here,” MooMaw said. “Even if you are a grown man.”

They worked for a few minutes more before MooMaw said, “I always did wish I could have gone to college, but my parents said it wasn’t worth the money to send a girl to college. All she’d do is get married anyway.”

Bitty snorted. “Seems like a waste of a lot of talent. Not the getting married part. The no college part.”

“It was a different time,” MooMaw said. “Most of the girls I went to high school with didn’t go on. A couple of them moved to the city and went to secretarial school, but they were thought to be rather fast.”

“What would you have studied?” Bitty asked.

“Well, in my day, plenty of girls went and studied home economics, but I always wanted to learn more history,” MooMaw said. “It was my best subject in high school.”

“You know my thesis is on the history of community cookbooks?” Bitty said. “Would you like to read it?”

“Of course I would,” MooMaw said. “Just as soon as you’ve finished it. Can you use one of those programs that stops you wasting time on the computer?”

“Maybe I could,” Bitty said. “But if I could put it on my computer, I could take it off. Anyway, I do use YouTube for work, too, so I don’t want to block and unblock it all the time. I’ve also been distracted by this email I need to write. Maybe if I do that first, my mind will be easier.”

“Anything important?” MooMaw asked. “You need help with money for something?”

“Nothing like that,” Bitty assured her. “The YouTube channel does make some money, and I don’t know if anyone told you, but I got a really sweet deal. The landlord’s letting me stay here rent-free.”

“Hah, she drives a hard bargain, though,” MooMaw said. “She’ll take it out in sweat equity.”

Bitty laughed.

“Seriously, there’s someone who wants me to help him learn to make pie, and he’s emailed me a couple of times already. He had never made a pie at all ‘til the day before yesterday, and now he’s made two and wants more advice for the next one. And he watched the last video, where I mentioned the hockey team, and he went and looked us up. He seems really into hockey.”

“Ooh, do you have one of those internet stalkers?” MooMaw asked.

Bitty shook his head.

“I don’t think so,” Bitty said. “He just seemed … excited? that we have hockey in common, if you can be excited in an email. Mostly, he’s just really determined to learn about pie.”

* * *

**Part 12**

Bitty barricaded himself in the guest room — his room for the foreseeable future — after supper.

He was showered and dressed in a clean T-shirt and shorts, he was well-fed with MooMaw’s chicken and dumplings, and he was as comfortable as he was going to get.

He had managed some work on his thesis before dinner, taking the time to be immensely grateful to both Nursey and Dex. His paragraphs seemed to flow together better now, and he knew some punctuation and word choices had changed, but he couldn’t identify anything he didn’t write.

Tomorrow he could submit, he thought, although he would really have preferred to be able to include samples from some of the best recipes he found. Maybe some of the worst, too: soybean loaf and “Burning Bush” canapés made with cream cheese and shredded dried beef came to mind.

His paper mentioned a recipe for something called German cookies made with baking ammonia, which was used as a leavening agent before baking powder became widely available, and he kind of wished he could try it, but he had no idea where to find such a thing these days,

There were “recipes” that were just combinations of products: “Ice cream dessert,” from Iowa, called for layering vanilla wafers in a baking dish, covering them with a thick layer of softened ice cream, spreading chocolate sauce over that, and then topping it all with another layer of vanilla wafers. The dish was to be frozen and cut like a sheet cake.

But there were also tasty recipes for dozens of variations of spinach dip, delicate Mexican wedding cookies, variations of fudge made with marshmallow fluff and with sweetened condensed milk.

Yes, Bitty had tried making many of these recipes, maybe too many, even the Coca-Cola cake and the Ritz cracker faux apple pie. But some of them might have improved his chance of approval from the committee.

“You don’t need it,” Nursey told him after sending the edited file back. “It’s a decent paper. It meets the requirements for sources and length, and you back up your arguments. You’re golden, I promise.”

Dex was more pragmatic in his encouragement. “They’re not going to fail a senior during the pandemic unless you totally blew off the requirements. Especially not you, the first out NCAA men’s hockey captain.”

Right. Hockey.

He opened the vlog’s email and looked at Jack’s email again, then at the response he’d started.

 _Hi, Jack,_ he’d typed after he came in from the yard.

_Of course you’re not being a bother. I’m happy to help answer any questions you have._

He paused before adding _about baking._

Even though Jack hadn’t really asked about baking in his last email. He’d kind of asked permission to keep writing to Bitty, if that wasn’t too old-fashioned of a concept. Bitty was happy to encourage him.

_You really kind of jumped in at the deep end with pies. Most home bakers start with cookies and muffins and things that are a little more forgiving. It’s not that I’m discouraging you from making pies — not at all! — but I’d also be happy to help with other baking projects if you want to take a rest and do something easier._

_But what I said before is still true. The more you make pie, the easier it will get. You just get a feel for what the texture of the dough should be like when it’s ready to chill and roll out, and what the proper pressure is when rolling, and when it’s thin enough to use._

_I should stop now, in case this sounds too complicated._

_Of course, you can also experiment with fillings and flavorings, whether that’s modifying it by using different varieties of apples or different spices, or going wild and making a cherry pie. Or even a lemon meringue!_

_To me, that’s the beauty of pie. At its foundation, it’s the same base, but you can build so many different things off of it. You can even do a savory pie with meat and vegetables, although my specialty is sweet dessert pie._

That was where Bitty stopped earlier, unsure of how to proceed. He half hoped his correspondent was Jack Zimmermann, Stanley Cup-winning center for the Providence Falconers and subject of at least a half-dozen posters Bitty had seen in various rooms of the Haus. That would be so … the only word for it was cool, to have a professional athlete and celebrity asking for baking advice. But he also wanted this Jack Zimmermann to turn out to be a regular guy, someone who just wanted to bake to impress his girlfriend or boyfriend, someone Bitty might actually end up being friends with.

Well. Best to rip the Band-Aid off and find out what he was dealing with.

_Sorry — I kind of go on about pie, I know._

_I am curious about your interest in hockey. If you’re a fan, I’m sure you know there’s a Jack Zimmermann who plays for the Falconers. He’s one of my old teammate’s favorite player! I know it’s a common name, though, so I don’t really expect you’re him. So if you’re not, how are you involved in hockey? I didn’t play at all until I was in high school, but now I love it. I’m really going to miss playing._

_But back to baking. You didn’t tell me the most important thing about your pie: How did it taste?_

_Eric_

_(Or Bitty. That’s what my team all calls me)_


	5. Chapter 5

**Part 13**

Jack did not bake a pie the day after he sent Bittle the email sympathizing with the end of his hockey season.

Not because Bittle didn’t respond immediately. Or at least mostly not.

He didn’t bake a pie because he already had most of two pies in his freezer, and he really could not consume a pie every day, and he wasn’t confident enough in his baking skills to give a pie to anyone else. Because it would be weird to give anyone a pie with a slice missing, and how else was he supposed to know if it tasted okay? He didn’t want to give anyone a bad pie, then have them feel like they had to thank him for something they couldn’t eat. Or they would force themselves to eat it, and still thank him, which would be worse.

So instead of mixing flour and salt, butter and shortening, he put on his workout clothes (Who was he kidding? All he wore all day every day were workout clothes) and went through his routine. He went to the garage and practiced shooting off the plastic pad.

Then he showered and read more of _Frederick Douglass: Prophet of Freedom,_ which he’d only picked up because it won the Pulitzer Prize but was finding fascinating.

That took him through to lunch, reheated chicken and vegetables and one small slice of his second pie (the better one).

He napped in the afternoon, then found himself at loose ends.

The team group chat was full of chirping about online video games, and Jack thought about joining in. He’d bought a Switch solely to play MarioKart, and someone was usually up to race even though the younger guys played more Fortnite and other games Jack had never heard of.

He decided to call his mother instead.

“Maman?”

“Jack! How are you? How’s life in Providence?”

“Fine, Maman. Quiet, I guess. How’s Montreal?”

“Quiet as well,” his mother said. “Your father and I are both fine. No need to worry about us. Well, maybe about Papa. He’s having some trouble coping with how often I beat him at gin rummy.”

“Haha.”

“Seriously, how are you holding up all by yourself? Are you finding enough to do?”

“Actually, um, I’ve been baking,” Jack said.

“Baking? Like making cookies and such? From scratch?”

“No, um, actually not cookies,” Jack said. “Pie.”

“Really?” his mother asked. “Making your own crust and everything? I’ve never dared attempt it. Why on earth would you do that?”

Jack shrugged, even though he knew his mother couldn’t see him.

“Because …”

“Because it’s hard?” she asked. “Is that it? Something to challenge yourself?”

“Sort of,” Jack said. “Maybe. I stumbled across a video of someone making pie crust the other day and it looked … interesting. So I bought what I needed at the grocery store, and I tried it, and it took like four hours and it didn’t turn out very well.”

“And that was the challenge? You want to get it right?”

“I guess,” Jack said. “I emailed the guy who made the pie video and asked for advice, and he wrote me back, so I tried again, and it really helped. My second one was much better.”

“The guy on the video?” his mother asked. “Where did you find this video? YouTube?”

“Yeah, but …”

“Oh, come on, if he’s that good, I want to watch, too.”

“Maman.”

“Fine, don’t tell me,” she said. “I have Google, YouTube and all the time in the world. Let’s see if I can find the baker that appealed to you enough for you to make two pies. Or are there more?”

“Euh … not yet,” Jack said. “I emailed him again, but he hasn’t responded. Yet. But get this, he plays hockey too.”

“Of course he does.”

Jack hung up, pulled together dinner from ingredients he had in the fridge and ate while watching tape of goalies the team had the hardest time against.

Once he washed up, he checked his email again.

There it was, an email from Bittle.

Jack opened it, hoping Bittle still wanted to talk baking with him.

He scanned the email, thrilled with Bittle’s enthusiasm for pie. Then he reached the last part.

“I know it’s a common name, though, so I don’t really expect you’re him,” Bittle said. “So if you’re not, how are you involved in hockey? I didn’t play at all until I was in high school, but now I love it. I’m really going to miss playing.”

Jack sank back in his chair.

Bittle didn’t believe he was Jack Zimmerman the hockey player? Wanted to know how he got involved in hockey? And he was captain of his NCAA Div I team after playing for, at most, seven years?

* * *

**Part 14**

Jack woke the next morning with a plan. He still had the ingredients he needed for dough. He still had apples. He would make another pie, still apple. Then he would take a picture of that — with himself in it — to send to Bittle. (Bitty? Bittle. It didn’t seem right to use a nickname for someone he’d never actually met.)

That would demonstrate that he was practicing, and that he was, in fact him.

He did want to branch out, but he didn’t want to make a special trip to the store, and he wasn’t sure if fresh blueberries were available. Did they sell frozen blueberries? Canned? He was pretty sure he’d seen canned cherry pie filling on the shelves. Maybe he could add that to his next delivery order?

In any case, his last pie had tasted pretty good. The filling was better than the first one, and so was the crust. If he used the same apples, the same recipe, he could probably get a good enough result that he could drop it off on Tater’s doorstep. Both because Tater was the only one who asked for pie, and because Tater wouldn’t be too particular.

Besides, Tater deserved some kind of thanks for what looked like it would turn into a weekly game night.

Jack did his morning workout, showered and made a protein shake and coffee. He had just measured flour and salt into a bowl when his phone rang.

Jack glanced at the phone, hoping it would be someone he could safely ignore.

Georgia Martin. Nope, had to answer that.

“Hey, George, everything okay with you?”

“Fine, Jack,” George said. “How are you holding up at home?”

“Fine,” Jack said. “Quiet, you know. But good. I’ve been checking in with the guys about their conditioning.”

“That’s good,” George said. “But I hope you didn’t think I was calling to say we’re starting up again soon?”

“No,” Jack said. “I think whatever they do, this season’s going to be an aberration, whether they try to finish it and do truncated playoffs or cut off the season and try to do expanded playoffs over the summer. It would probably be better for everyone just to give it up and start fresh next fall, if we can.”

“Don’t tell the NHL owners that, but I think you’re right,” George said.

“So what did you call about?”

“Given that there’s no hockey for the foreseeable future, the NHL is setting up media calls with groups of players. They want you for tomorrow,” George said.

“And it’s not like I can say I have other plans, eh?”

“I know it’s not your favorite thing,” George said.

“Understatement,” Jack muttered.

“But it’s an honor to be asked,” she said. “And it would be good for the team.”

“Who else?”

“Sid,” George said.

“Okay,” Jack said.

“Toews.”

“Okay.”

This might be the most boring media call ever, but that was fine with Jack.

“And Parson.”

“Parse? Really?”

“Really,” George said. “There will be someone from NHL pr refereeing questions, and the only reporters invited are sportswriters who cover hockey as a beat. They’ve been told to keep the questions to hockey and stuff about how you’re handling the layoff. They should be fine.”

“It’s not them that will be the problem,” Jack said. “Parse likes attention.”

“So let him talk and don’t rise to his bait,” George said. “He can’t out you without outing himself, and he’s not going to do that. The Vegas ownership would drop him no matter how much hardware he has.”

“I know,” Jack said. “But he likes to provoke me. You know that.”

“And I know you can handle it,” George said. “It would look bad we didn’t make you available, because, as you said, no one has plans to be anywhere. But I will if you really don’t want to do it.”

Jack took a deep breath in and blew it out.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

Jack returned to his pie crust after he hung up, but nothing worked right. The dough was too crumbly instead of too sticky. It wouldn’t hold together, but adding more water was a disaster. Jack trashed the whole batch and started over.

Doing a joint interview with Parse was not how he wanted to spend his time at home. They got along, after a fashion, after years of playing against each other, but Parse loved to try to get a rise out of him. George was right, Jack had to let it go. Think about something else when Parse tried to provoke him.

Concentrating on the dough forced Jack to regulate his breathing and focus. He was calmer by the time he finished. The end result was not as good as the second pie Jack made, even if it was better than the first.

Still not good enough to give to Tater, or to introduce himself to Bittle. He sighed as he wrapped it and stuck in the freezer, which was getting crowded.

Tomorrow he would try again.

* * *

**Part 15**

Jack did try again the next morning. This time, the dry ingredients and the fats combined to make a rough crumble, and the ice water dampened it just enough for him to form it into puck-sized disks to be wrapped and chilled.

He peeled the last of his apples and found he had at least a cup more slices than usual. Maybe he was getting better at peeling?

Rolling the dough evenly was still a challenge, and Jack had to do the bottom crust twice, but it looked okay.

He looked at the time on his phone twice after he slid it into the oven. It had taken him only an hour, not counting baking time. He’d spent that hour constantly focused on what he was doing, and he’d hardly even thought about Parse and the interview.

He’d thought more about Bittle,and what Jack wanted to tell him, and what Jack still wanted to ask him, and whether Bittle would ever take a bite of a pie Jack made and say it was good.

Maybe, Jack thought. Not yet, but one day. And he had plenty of time to practice before such a thing would even be possible.

He showered and dressed for the interview in Falconers polo shirt and ball cap while the pie was in the oven, then ate lunch, went into the bathroom to brush his teeth and make sure there was nothing on his face, and logged into the Zoom call.

Toews and Sid were the only ones there, outside the NHL handler. They were chatting about golf and whether their states would open courses at all this spring. Crosby thought they would; Toews agreed but wasn’t sure it was a good idea.

“Hey, Jack,” Sid said, once Jack’s box was situated on the screen. “Your dad doing okay?”

“Fine,” Jack said. “But he’s getting testy because my mother keeps beating him at cards. He’s a little competitive, you know?”

“Sure, Jack, like you wouldn’t know anything about that?” Toews said.

Which was ridiculous, because the guy was called Captain Serious for a reason. Even if he didn’t like it.

Parse’s face popped up at that moment. “What doesn’t Jack know anything about?” he asked, all innocence.

The handler stepped in at that point and announced the reporters that would be joining them from Las Vegas, Chicago, Pittsburgh and Providence.

The questions were easy enough:

How do you feel about the suspension of the season? (“We all want to be playing, but we have to keep everyone – players and fans – safe.”)

How are you staying in condition in the season starts up again?” (“It’s difficult without access to our trainers, facilities or ice, but most of us have decent home gyms and we’ve been working out.”)

Is there any upside for guys who have been fighting injuries? (“Maybe, but everyone would still rather be playing.”)

What are you doing to fill your time? Sid and Toews both said they’d been improving their video game skills, Parse said he was taking down guys who needed to improve their gaming, and Jack said he’d been reading a lot.

“Of course you are,” Parse said. “You working on a secret master’s degree?”

“I’d have to get a bachelor’s first,” Jack said mildly, not letting on that he’d almost gone the college route after missing the draft. “But hey, you never know, right?”

The reporters left the call shortly after that, and the handler was thanking the players when Parse piped up.

“What’s that behind you, Zimms? A pie? I thought you were on your own.”

“I am,” Jack said. “I made it.”

“Sure you did,” Parse said. “Reading and baking. Well. You should get back to that. I hope your team nutritionist wasn’t watching.”

“Whatever,” Jack said. “Stay safe, everyone.”

He logged off. Then he called Georgia.

“Umm, just so you know, Parse noticed a pie on the counter behind me. You think I need to let Nate know I’m following my plan?”

“You’re the last player Nate worries about,” George said. “Pie? Did you make it?”

“Looking for something to do,” Jack said.

“That’s great,” Georgia said. “I can only hope the other guys’ indulgences are so … wholesome.”

The pie was cool, so Jack held it in one hand, held his phone out awkwardly with the other, and took a photo.

Then he emailed Bittle.

_Hi, Bittle._

_Yes, I am the Jack Zimmermann who plays for the Falconers, so I’ve been playing hockey maybe as long as you’ve been baking. But my baking skills are nowhere near as good as your hockey skills – I’m kind of shocked that you started so late and play so well. And I still have pie questions, if you don’t mind._

_This is not the third pie I made – it’s the fourth. The third was a real step back, but I tried again. I’m giving this one to a teammate. The others are still in my freezer. I feel bad throwing them out._

_I’m getting a grocery order tomorrow and I asked for cherry pie filling so I can try a different kind._

_Thanks for all your help._

_Jack_

Jack hit send, then picked up his mask and keys. He’d leave the pie outside Tater’s door and text when he got a few blocks away.


	6. Chapter 6

**Part 16**

Bitty stared at the email on his laptop screen. Then he toggled to a new window, the one with the photo of Jack Zimmermann, number 1 on the Providence Falconers, raising the Stanley Cup in 2018.

Yep. Definitely the same guy. The hair was even about the same length, although the Jack Zimmermann in the pie photo was clean shaven. He was was wearing a Falconers blue polo shirt, and clearly holding the camera -- probably his phone -- at arms length. It was awkward and goofy and utterly adorable … and holy hell, Bitty had to stop thinking this way.

He knew better than to fall for a straight boy. And Jack Zimmermann, first-line center for the Providence Falconers, was straight. Definitely. Almost definitely.

Because sometimes it almost seemed like Jack Zimmermann, winner of the 2018 Conn Smythe trophy, was flirting. Or trying to flirt. With him. Eric Bittle. Formerly the first out NCAA men’s hockey captain, baker extraordinaire and now man-of-all-work for his beloved MooMaw.

Nah. Bitty had to have been reading him wrong. Bitty had seen a few of his post-game interviews and, much as he hated to say it, Jack Zimmermann was about as flat and affectless as they came. No matter how much passion he put into hockey (and that Game 7 had been a thing of beauty), it all seemed to get locked away once he stepped off the ice.

He must just be awkward and bad at people. Which was sad, for him, because he really seemed to want to try. Why else would he want to bake so badly? Baking was something people did to make other people happy, and maybe, in Bitty’s experience, to make other people like them. Also to get what they wanted, like a seat in Alice Atley’s senior seminar when then they were sophomores, but Bitty was fairly certain Jack Zimmerman wouldn’t need pie for that. He could just give the school enough money to put his name on a building or something.

To confirm his impression of Jack Zimmermann’s communication skills -- and if they were going to keep talking or writing or whatever, Bitty had to stop thinking of Jack Zimmerman by his full name -- he searched _Jack Zimmerman NHL interview._

The first hit was a videoconference interview recorded and posted the day before with Jack Zi-- 

Jack and a few other stars.

Bitty’s first thought was that Jack seemed slightly less wooden than usual, maybe because Toews and Crosby were both sticking to the pr-approved script as well, and Jack seemed good by comparison. His second was that Jack and Kent Parson clearly knew each other, with the way Parson was ribbing him about his reading habit. The third was that Jack’s pie -- the very pie from the picture Jack sent -- was visible behind Jack.

Too bad nobody brought it up.

Maybe Jack didn’t want anyone to say anything, maybe they’d been warned? Jack wouldn’t want the whole world to know he was learning to bake from Bitty. Bitty had taken down the videos he’d done when he was younger, the ones where he mooned over his crush of the week, but most of his regular viewers knew he was gay. Jack had watched at least a few videos. And Bitty’s appointment as captain last spring got a mention on ESPN SportsCenter, to Bitty’s great surprise.

But if Jack was worried about that, why hadn’t he put the pie somewhere else?

It didn’t matter if Jack was a rich, famous, handsome straight guy, Bitty decided, or even if Bitty’s stomach made a little flip when he saw Jack’s name in the email inbox. He could be living in the next town and volunteering to lead the pride parade and, during this coronavirus quarantine, he would be just as unattainable. 

The important thing was he wanted to get better at baking a pie, and that was something Bitty could help with.

He went back to the email and read past the first paragraph in order to write back. He’d try to take his time and strike the right note.

Wait. Canned pie filling? What was he thinking?

He started typing.

_Dear Jack,_

_Under no circumstances should you use canned pie filling, cherry or any other flavor. Fresh is best, and frozen cherries, blueberries and other fruits can be an acceptable substitute if fresh, in-season fruit is not available. Canned fruit -- not pie filling, but actual fruit, packed in water -- is your last resort._

_Promise me, Jack, or I can’t help you anymore._

Okay, now that that was out of the way, he could move on.

_I’m not surprised you had a setback. That’s how progress works when you’re learning a new skill, right? You start and you have no idea what you’re doing, so your second effort is better than the first most of the time, but then sometimes it gets worse before it gets better. You have to make mistakes if you are going to learn from them._

_The pie in the picture looks so much better than the first one you made, and I’m sure Tater (Mashkov? I think?) will like it. As for the pies in the freezer, I give you permission to trash the ones that don’t meet your standards. Don’t think of them as a waste of food or time, think of them as learning experiences. You want to save freezer space for things you want to eat._

_I’m flattered you think so highly of my hockey skills. They’re nothing compared to yours, but are immensely better than they were when I arrived at Samwell and was so scared of being checked I’d collapse on the ice. My teammates and my coaches helped me through that, but that’s probably most of the reason I skate so fast. They couldn’t hit me if they couldn’t catch me!_

_I’m sure you’re busy even during the lockdown, but please feel free to let me know if I can help you. Maybe you could let me know if you are planning a new kind of pie so we can talk it through before you start?_

_Bitty_

* * *

**Part 17**

Bitty may have spent too much of the afternoon staring at his computer.

“I thought you said you finished your thesis,” MooMaw said.

“I did,” Bitty said. “I’m just waiting to find out if it’s approved.”

“You know a watched pot never boils and all that,” MooMaw said.

“I know,” Bitty said. “And I’m not really worried. The rough draft was approved, and Dex was right --I think it would take a lot to turn someone down who needs this to graduate this year. I think it’ll be fine. I hope so.”

“So you really are just looking at that handsome man?”

MooMaw nodded towards Bitty’s screen, which displayed a photo of Jack Zimmermann heading into the arena for the Falconers home opener last fall.

It was from the Twitter tag #hockeyplayersinsuits, and it showed yet a different look for Jack -- stylish and well-groomed, debonair even, a man going about his business. It was a good look. But then, so were “disheveled and sweaty hockey player” and “awkward, self-conscious baker.”

Even Jack as “stubbornly stiff interview subject” was growing on Bitty, Lord help him.

“Jack Zimmermann,” Bitty said. “He’s a famous hockey player. And he’s the guy who’s been emailing all the pie questions.”

“He’s a looker, I’ll give you that,” MooMaw said. 

“Yeah,” Bitty said.”I didn’t know it was him -- at least not for sure -- until he included a selfie with his last email.”

“You’re sure it is really him?” MooMaw said. “Not someone pretending? I hear about how people can change photos these days.”

“No, it looks genuine,” Bitty said. He was tempted to go back and examine Jack’s pie selfie for misplaced shadows and lines that didn’t quite meet up, but he shook his head. Nothing had aroused his suspicion the first (two dozen) times he’d looked at it, and it would be a lot of work for someone to go to to troll him.

Ransom or Holster could have done it maybe? With too much time on their hands now that they were stuck at home? They could have done it, but Bitty didn’t think they would.

Besides, the pie was in Jack’s interview video too.

“Only you could find a new beau during the quarantine,” MooMaw said. “Goes to show how much people like you. Are you going to tell your folks about him?”

“He’s not my beau,” Bitty said. “He’s a professional hockey player, so presumably straight, and if not, so deep in the closet it would take a spelunking expedition to find him. He just took a liking to making pie, and he wants to do it right.”

“Okay,” MooMaw said. “I’ll take your word for it that all you two are talking about is pie --”

“And hockey,” Bitty clarified.

“-- but if it goes further and you all develop feelings, you might want to tell your family instead of letting them find out from ESPN,” she said. “That didn’t go over so well last time.”

“I know,” Bitty said. “I’ve apologized to them, and I apologize to you, too.”

“No need to apologize to me, Dicky,” MooMaw said. “But your mother and daddy were hurt that you didn’t confide in them.”

“How could I, with Coach being well, the coach and all?” Bitty asked.

“I’m not blaming you,” MooMaw said. “Just trying to explain, maybe, and give you a little advice.”

“I know,” Bitty said. “And I didn’t mean for them to find out that way. I mean, no one around here follows college hockey. I just did an interview for the school paper, and then Outsports called, and no one here would see that, so I figured I still had time. I didn’t know ESPN was gonna pick it up. They never called me. I didn’t know ‘til my phone blew up with people from school who saw it, then I turned off notifications so I could get some work done, and I didn’t know Mama had called until the next day.”

By the time Bitty had called his mother back, she’d been convinced that he was never going to talk to her again and had turned his back on his whole family. It had taken an hour on the phone and tears on both sides and still things had been strained for months. They weren’t quite normal yet, but Bitty hoped they got there soon.

It had honestly been easier with Coach, who just said, “You could have told us, son.” Bitty had nodded and said, “I know that now.” 

“So remember how it was when that happened?” Bitty said. “What do you think would happen if an NHL player like Jack came out? Of course there’s nothing between us but me helping him bake.”

“You can be helping him bake and also have feelings for him, and vice versa,” MooMaw said. “Things aren’t always all one or the other. But if you’re determined that that’s all this is, maybe you shouldn’t spend so much time drooling over his pictures?”

* * *

**Part 18**

Jack must have been sitting at home waiting for Bitty’s email, because he wrote back not an hour later.

Of course he was sitting at home. What else would he be doing? Maybe he had been waiting for Bitty to respond because he was waiting to finish a grocery list, because the first thing he asked was what kind of cherries he should get.

 _Your cherry pie recipe calls for tart cherries but Whole Foods only has frozen sweet cherries,_ Jack wrote. _Should I get those or the canned tart ones? Any advice on frozen blueberries?_

_By the way, I should tell you that Tater liked the pie. Don’t be too impressed -- he’s not picky. But he requested a blueberry pie next._

_Did you mean it when you said you’d talk me through it? Can I text you when my grocery delivery comes to set up a time? I have to go now -- we have team online game night, and I know Tater’s going to chirp me to hell and back for actually making him a pie, but I’m kind of looking forward to it. Let me know your number so I can text you if that’s really okay._

_Jack_

His phone number was underneath.

It seemed like Jack was in a hurry to get his order in, so Bitty responded as soon as he could.

_Get the frozen ones, he said. You can thaw them under running water before you make the filling. You should make sure you use a recipe for sweet cherries, or cut the sugar by about ¼ cup if you’re using a recipe for sour cherries. Also, you’re going to want to cook this filling first so it’s not too liquidy. Do you have cornstarch?_

_The frozen blueberries from whole foods are fine. You’ll need about two pounds of cherries for a pie, and two pounds or maybe a little bit more blueberries._

_And of course you can text me. If you want, we can Facetime or Skype or something while you make your pie. Just text me and lmk if you want to do that, and what time. I hear grocery delivery windows aren’t very specific these days._

Bitty signed it and added his phone number, shaking his head. What even was his life?

Then he headed to the chest freezer in the basement to see if MooMaw had frozen cherries or blueberries from last summer so he could bake along with Jack, assuming Jack actually called.

Bitty knew he was ridiculous the next morning when he was disappointed at the cool, gray weather. Not appropriate for his favorite khaki shorts and pink polo. Pink made everyone look good. He found his favorite skinny jeans instead, topped with a Samwell red t-shirt and an open plaid flannel, sleeves carefully folded back. Nice, but not looking like he put any effort in.

“Why’re you all dressed up today?” MooMaw asked. “Shooting another video?”

“No, but Jack and I might do a video call so I can help him bake. I figured I can bake along so he can see what I’m doing.”

“Uh-huh,” MooMaw said. 

“Anyway, I’m pretty sure we’re doing a cherry pie with frozen cherries, so I took the ones from the freezer, if you don’t mind,” Bitty said. “If his grocery service can’t get frozen cherries, we’ll do blueberry. But so far, he’s only done apple. Nothing with a filling that you have to cook.”

“You can do blueberry without cooking the filling,” MooMaw said.

“I know, but it doesn’t work so well if the blueberries are frozen,” Bitty said, rummaging in the cupboard and coming out with the cornstarch, some cinnamon and the little bottle of almond extract. He already had mixing bowls, flour, salt, measuring cups and spoons, and other tools on the table.

“You’re like a little boy waiting to go to the beach, I swear,” MooMaw said. “I’ll make myself scarce. Yell if you can’t find anything.”

Bitty occupied himself by planning out his next video until his phone buzzed with an incoming text.

_Groceries are here, it said. Ready when you are._

_Great,_ Bitty responded. _Skype? That way I can use my laptop._

A moment later, the call came in and Bitty was looking at the inside of Jack’s kitchen, with Jack’s face in the foreground.

“Hey, Bittle.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note: I started working on a sequel, so this is now a series. Please subscribe to the series if you don't want to miss it!

**Part 19**

“Hey, Jack,” Bittle said, his face impossibly big on Jack’s laptop screen. He appeared to be seated in the kitchen from the last video, with its painted wooden cabinets and yellow checked curtains over the sink. “So, um, what fruit did you get? I used up all the blueberries my mama brought me on the scones last week, but MooMaw had some frozen ones and some frozen cherries in the freezer in the basement.”

Jack let Bittle’s voice wash over him. It sounded a lot like it did on his videos -- if anything, the sound quality now wasn’t quite as good -- but it felt warm and soft, with a different kind of intimacy because these words were meant for Jack alone.

Even if they were about baking a pie.

“Uh, cherries,” Jack said, finally remembering to answer. He held up the package. “But the bag says they’re sweet.”

“That’s okay,” Bittle said. “It just means you’re going to add a little less sugar. Are they still frozen?”

“Pretty much.”

“So are mine,” Bittle said, holding up a plastic zip-locked bag. “Just pour them out into a colander and put that into a bowl of cold water so they can thaw while we make the crust.”

Bittle got up and walked to the sink, giving Jack an excellent opportunity to see just how well his jeans fit. They fit very well indeed.

Bittle glanced back over his shoulder as he reached into a cupboard for a colander and saw Jack still motionless at his laptop.

“Jack, honey,” Bittle said. “Do you have a colander? You know, the thing you use to drain pasta?”

Jack warmed at being called “honey,” but just said, “Euh, yeah. Of course.” 

As he pulled the colander from the cabinet under the island, he thought about what he wanted to do here. He liked making pie. He liked learning about making pie from Bittle. But he really liked Bittle.

Who lived a thousand miles away during a pandemic when no one could really travel.

He put the cherries in water as directed and returned to the laptop.

“Now, I’m guessing you have the basic dough recipe more or less memorized if you’ve made four pies in the last week?” Bittle said.

“Yes,” Jack said, not admitting that he had it up in a separate window on his screen. 

“I’m gonna use that recipe, but I’m going to adjust the mix of butter and shortening because I think a buttery crust goes really well with the cherries,” Bittle said. “You don’t have to, if you don’t like too much butter in a crust.”

Jack really didn’t know how much butter he liked, but Bittle hadn’t steered him wrong yet.

“I’ll, uh, follow your lead,” Jack said. “You’re the expert.”

“That I am,” Bittle said.

Jack watched Bittle measure flour and salt into his bowl while Jack did the same. Bittle held up the shortening and the butter to show Jack how much to use and began cubing them to drop into the dry ingredients.

Jack started cubing his fats and asked, “What will you do with this pie? You can’t keep everything you bake.”

“Oh, I find homes for my pies,” Bittle said. “And everything else. Remember, me and MooMaw are both here. Mama will be by with more groceries in a day or two, and she and Coach -- that’s my daddy -- will take some. If I have extra, I can deliver them to folks in town. Just leave them outside.”

“That’s what I did with the last one I made,” Jack said. 

“You said you were giving it to Alexei Mashkov? Did he like it?”

“More than I would have thought,” Jack said. “He kept talking about it during the game night last night.”

“Talking or chirping?”

“A little of both,” Jack said. In reality, Tater had been very complimentary about the pie when he logged on with the captains ahead of anyone else. But he’d gone on about how Jack was going to use it to “win someone’s heart,” as Tater put it, and Marty said maybe somebody had won Jack’s, and Jack had mentioned the YouTube videos, and Thirdy had called them up and looked back into the camera and said, “Dude, you didn’t say it was Eric Bittle. He was out as captain of his team last year. George was talking about asking him to be on our float for Providence Pride this year. Especially if they made a splash in the playoffs. You know, when it was still going to happen.”

“Looks like someone already won Jack’s heart,” Tater said.

“Jack?” Bittle was trying to get his attention. “Jack, what are you doing?”

Jack looked down at his hands, buried in flour and salt and butter and shortening. “Um, mixing the fats and the dry ingredients?”

* * *

**Part 20**

“You’re still doing it with your fingers?” Bittle said, holding the tool he had used in his video. “After so many pies, I’m surprised your fingers haven’t fallen off.”

“Haha. No. I like the way it feels.”

“Hmm. Well, I’m sure I have an extra pastry blender around here somewhere that I could send you,” Bittle said.

“That’s not necessary,” Jack said, rubbing the flour mixture into the butter and shortening. “I really don’t mind. I like the way it feels. Is that really that much easier?”

He was watching Bittle push the pastry blender into his dough over and over, giving it a little twist each time. Ever so often he would pause and push the accumulated dough off of it.

“Yes,” Bittle said. “For me, at least. If I do more than a batch or two with my fingers, they start to cramp. You can use a food processor too, or even a stand mixer, but I always do it this way unless I’ve got like a dozen pies to do at once.”

“You make that many at once?”

“Not usually,” Bittle said. “Just sometimes, for bake sales and things. How does your dough look?”

Jack picked up the bowl and tilted it so Bittle could see inside. “Almost there,” he said.

“Yeah,” Bittle said. “Not too much more.”

Jack repeated the process of showing the dough to Bittle every time he added a spoonful of ice water.

He was about to add a sixth tablespoon when Bittle stopped him.

“Do you really think you need that?” he asked. “I know the recipe says six or seven tablespoons, but that’s just a guide. If it will clump together, it’s ready now.”

Jack pinched some of the dough together, and it did stick, much like it had with pie number two, still his pie to beat. 

“Some days you just need less water,” Bittle said. “Maybe it has to do with the humidity, or the amount of moisture in your butter or something.”

After the dough was pulled together and wrapped in two disks in the refrigerator, Bittle got his cherries out of the water and let them drain.

“All we really want to do is cook them with some sugar and some cornstarch so the filling won’t be too runny,” Bittle said. “Flour works too, but it can make the filling cloudy. Did you get cornstarch?”

“Yes,” Jack said.

“Okay, then, we’re going to add the cherries, cornstarch, sugar, a little salt, some vanilla … let me send you the recipe in the chat,” Bittle said. “I’ll still go over all the measurements as we add them.”

Jack looked at the chat box.

“Almond extract?” he said. “I don’t think I have that.”

“It’s okay,” Bitty said. “I like it with cherries, but your pie will be good without it.”

Jack watched, listened and copied Bittle as he added the ingredients to a large saucepan. He watched the view change as Bittle turned his computer to face the stove and carried the pan over.

“This is the important part,” Bittle said, standing half facing the stove and half facing the computer. “You want to stir it pretty frequently while it heats up, then turn the heat down just after boils and take it off the heat completely once it coats the spoon. That could be different times for both of us, so watch your filling instead of me.”

Jack did as Bittle told him, but he couldn’t help taking peeks at Bittle, now facing away from him, humming and swaying a bit as he minded his own filling.

It came together faster than he expected, and he had to hurry to get it off the burner before it got too thick. Once he did, he looked up to see Bittle watching him with a smile.

“Okay, ready to roll out the crust?”

Jack started to scatter flour on his work surface, but Bittle stopped him.

“If you add a layer of fat -- a little butter or shortening -- the flour will stay put better,” Bittle said. “Makes cleanup a little harder, though.”

Jack obediently rubbed a bit of shortening onto the surface, and then dusted the flour across it.

He and Bittle each pulled a disk of dough from their refrigerators and worked it in their hands before starting the rolling process.

Jack watched Bittle’s quick, gentle strokes and tried to imitate them. Then Bittle took what looked like a large metal blade to lift the edge of his dough to scatter more flour underneath.

“What’s that?” Jack asked. 

Bittle had to look down at his hands to see what Jack meant.

“This? A scraper. Of course, you wouldn’t have one,” Bittle said. “I’m amazed you’ve been able to get your crust in the pan at all. How do you get it off the counter and around the rolling pin?”

“I’ve been using a spatula, and my hands,” Jack said.

Bittle was looking at Jack’s hands through the camera.

“I guess if we all had the coordination of elite athletes and hands the size of dinner plates it might work,” he said, considering. “But I can send you a scraper along with the pastry blender.”

“You really don’t have to,” Jack said. 

“But they make it so much easier,” Bittle said. 

“I can just order them,” Jack said. “I think I can afford it.”

“Well, of course,” Bittle said. “Both together couldn’t be more than $25. But why spend the money? Just give me your address and … oh. If you don’t want to share that, it’s fine.”

“No, it’s not that,” Jack said. “Not at all. It’s just that I can probably order them and get them faster than you can send them, and it will cost me less than it would cost you in postage anyway.”

“Okay,” Bittle said, but he still looked downcast. “I just wanted to help you out.”

“You’ve helped so much already,” Jack said. “Really. Look, if you want to send me something … pie probably doesn’t travel so well.”

“I could send you cookies,” Bittle said. “I’ve been sending some to my old team. What kind do you like?”

“I don’t know,” Jack said. “I don’t usually eat many cookies. I’m not sure how you survive on this diet. You should eat more protein.”

Jack already knew that Bittle’s affronted look was put on, not real. Then Bittle smiled and said, “Do you like peanut butter?”

“I have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich before every game,” Jack said.

“Good,” Bittle said. “Then there’ll be a batch of PB and J cookies on your doorstep just a couple of days after I get your address.”

* * *

**Part 21**

After the pies went in their respective ovens, Bittle said, “You can put your address in the chat, or just text me. You know when to take your pie out, so you can get going if you have other stuff to do.”

“Not really,” Jack said. “I already did everything I have to get done today. I can hang out. Unless you have something … didn’t you say you needed to finish your thesis?”

“Done and turned in,” Bittle said. “And approved, according to the email I got this morning. I’m pretty sure my Mama’s bringing over a bottle of champagne later so we can sit on opposite sides of the backyard and celebrate.”

“Hey, congratulations,” Jack said. “That’s impressive. And if you send me cookies, I can send you a card for your graduation. Because then I’ll have your address.”

“A card,” Bittle said. “Just a card.”

“Well, yeah,” Jack saud. “I don’t know you well enough to buy you a briefcase or pen set, right? What do people give for graduation gifts?”

“Well, those are popular choices,” Bittle said. “Relatives mostly give money. Sometimes parents or grandparents, if they can afford it, give cars. But they probably would have bought their kids cars anyway, I guess.”

“Yeah?” Jack said. “Are you getting a car?”

Bittle laughed.

“No. My parents aren’t quite in the give-a-car for graduation tax bracket,” Bittle said. “Anyway, I have a truck already.”

“High school graduation?”

“Nope,” Bittle said. “I bought it myself when I was a senior in high school with the money for my summer job. But it was already old, and I bought it from my cousin, so it was pretty cheap. But it runs. I like it. ‘Course, you must have like three cars or something.”

“Nope,” Jack said, imitating Bittle. “Just one. I have a mid-size SUV. If I need something else, I can always rent it, but my parents always said it doesn’t make sense to own more cars than there are drivers in the house. Unless, of course, you really like cars and collect them or something. Then it’s more of a hobby.”

“Expensive hobby,” Bittle said. 

“More expensive than baking,” Jack agreed. “But my parents have some friends who can afford it.”

“That’s right, I remember hearing your dad played in the NHL too,” Bittle said. “Bad Bob Zimmermann? The guys in the Haus -- the hockey team house -- talked about him.”

“That’s him,” Jack said, with a rueful smile. “But I was talking more about my mother’s friends.”

“Your mother?”

“The family calls her Alicia Zimmermann, but, euh, you probably know her as Alicia Montgomery?”

Bittle’s jaw actually dropped open.

“I love her!” he said. “Well, not like you love her, of course, I mean, I assume you do because she’s your mother and I hope you don’t have a really terrible relationship but you never hear anything about her personal life so I assume she’s just as delightful in person as she is to watch and --”

“She likes you, too,” Jack broke in.

Bittle just stared in silence.

“I mentioned watching your videos before,” Jack said. “Not by name or anything. Just that I watched them, and made two pies. She said she had YouTube and all the time in the world, and yesterday she sent me a text that just said ‘OMG! Check Please, Eric Bittle.’”

“Oh my gracious!” Bittle said. “Alicia Montgomery has watched me bake!”

“Yes, and when I confirmed it was you, and said we were doing this today, she wanted me to tell you how much she enjoyed watching you,” Jack said. “She said, uh, you obviously know what you’re talking about and you have a really warm, friendly presence in front of the camera. And she thought the later videos looked better than the earlier ones? Something about how you were learning how to produce them better.”

“Well, yes, I can do a little better than the camera and internal mic on a low-end iPad these days,” Bittle said. “That’s what I started with. But I think I still need to upgrade if I’m really going to make a go of this.”

“Is that what you plan to do?” Jack said. “YouTube?”

“Baking videos,” Bitty said. “I’d love to be on TV, but I think I have to make a name for myself first. So YouTube, a cookbook, or a few cookbooks, maybe then someone will hire me? I’ll need a day job, of course, for the foreseeable future, but finding one has kind of gone out the window for now.”

“You can run the YouTube stuff from anywhere, though, right?” Jack said. “It doesn’t matter that much that you’re in …”

“Georgia.”

“Right, Georgia, as compared to when you were at Samwell?”

“Not so much,” Bittle said. “I’m planning to head back to New England, anyway -- I’ll probably look for some kind of a job doing communications, maybe with social media, and there’s more opportunity up there and, well, how far did you back in the videos?”

“Um, not very?”

“I mean, you don’t have to go far to learn that I’m gay, I guess, and that’s just easier up there.”

Bittle was looking at the laptop screen like he was searching Jack’s face.

“I knew that,” Jack said. “It’s not something you keep private, is it? Because Marty -- Sebastien St. Martin -- and Thirdy -- you know, Robinson? -- they told me. About you being the first out NCAA hockey captain.”

“Men’s hockey captain,” Bittle said, a little faintly. “They all know you’re talking to me? And they don’t care?”

“Well, sure,” Jack said. “Tater wouldn’t stop talking about the pie, and when I mentioned your name they already knew who you were. Thirdy said the team was thinking of inviting you to be on our float for Providence Pride.”

“Huh. I guess I still expect … never mind,” Bittle said. 

“Hockey players to be homophobic?” Jack said. “No, I get that.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Part 22**

“I think it was really brave of you to come out when you were the captain at Samwell,” Jack said.

Bitty almost laughed out loud.

“It wasn’t like I had any choice,” Bitty said. “I never came out to anyone -- never said the words ‘I’m gay’ out loud -- until like, more than halfway through my first semester? I was just a frog, no one important on the team, but there was this dance coming up and Ransom and Holster -- two huge D-men -- took it upon themselves to find me a date. It’s kind of a thing for this dance, having your friends or roommate or whoever set you up. And it was sweet that they wanted to, and they knew just about everyone on campus, and I knew they were trying to make sure I felt welcomed and included, but they kept asking what I looked for in a girl. And here I was, eighteen years old, a thousand miles away from home, in a place I specifically chose so I could be myself, but the only people I hung out with were hockey players, and I didn’t want it to be a problem. So I said, ‘Fuck it. I have to tell someone sometime or this whole thing is pointless.’”

“So you told them? Did they react okay?”

“Well, first I told this guy who went by the name Shitty, who was a gender studies major, and was like, aggressively supportive of the LGBTQ community, even though he’s straight,” Bitty said. “You should have seen me pacing in front of this bench on the quad, gripping the note cards I wrote to help me get through it. He went with me to tell Ransom and Holster, who just switched to asking me what kind of guy I wanted to go with. They were totally fine.”

“So, um, did they find you a guy?”

Bitty heaved a dramatic sigh.

“Tragically, yes. Each year for the three years we were all there. But they were terrible at it. One actually threw up on his shoes. Well, one was okay. We dated for a little bit. But that was the thing -- everyone at Samwell knew I was gay. Once I came out to Shitty I used to go to the queer student athlete meetings and everything.”

“His name is seriously Shitty?” Jack asked.

“He would say so,” Bitty said. “But that’s not the point. The point is that I came out ages before I thought I would be made captain. Really, I never did think I’d be captain. I was utterly shocked. And then I didn’t realize how much attention I would get, but they talked about it on ESPN and that’s how my mama and Coach found out I was gay.”

“Your coach didn’t know?”

“My coach? Oh, sure, the Samwell coaches knew,” Bitty said. “Coach is my daddy. He’s the high school football coach here and everyone calls him Coach.”

“Are they okay with it?” Jack asked. “That’s not why you’re living with your grandmother, is it?”

“Not really,” Bitty said. “It wasn’t great for a while, but more because they thought I blindsided them than anything else. It’s still a little strained, but it’s not like they kicked me out. I just wanted to be sure MooMaw was staying home and not having people barge their way in all the time because they were bringing her things. She’s a national treasure, and deserves to be protected like one.”

“It’s nice of you to take care of her,” Jack said.

Bitty laughed.

“Who said I’m the one taking care of her? We’re taking care of each other. Anyway, all that goes to show I understand about athletes in team sports being, uh, less than welcoming to gay people. It wasn’t even great when I was figure skating, even though everyone outside the skating world assumed I must be gay because I did figure skate.”

“Wait,” Jack said. “You figure skated? Competitively? Your speed makes more sense now. Why’d you stop?”

Bitty hesitated. He’d been talking a lot, and this was turning into the Poor Bitty Show. No reason to talk about being shoved into closets.

“Long story,” Bitty said. “I guess the short version is that we moved, and it just didn’t work to go to my old coach for training every day, and I wasn’t ready to move away from home to pursue it. You probably moved away in high school, didn’t you? We had a couple of players at Samwell who did juniors.”

“I did,” Jack said. “Although it didn’t work out so well for me. I ended up missing the draft the first year I was eligible and falling way down the rankings.”

“Shoot,” Bittle said. “I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”

“You didn’t know,” Jack said. “I mean, you really didn’t, right? You haven’t Googled me or anything. It’s weird, because most people know.”

“First, I highly doubt most people know,” Bitty said. “There are probably billions of people in the world who never heard of you. And I did Google just a little bit -- enough to see that the Jack Zimmermann with the pie was really the Jack Zimmermann who plays for the Falconers. You know you could see the pie in that interview?”

“Haha. Yeah, Kent mentioned it after the stream ended,” Jack said. 

* * *

**Part 23**

Bitty didn’t know what history lay between Jack and Kent, but given the way Jack clammed up after mentioning Kent’s name, Bitty would have bet it was complicated.

Which would imply that Jack wasn’t exactly straight (Kent Parson, too, but Bitty wasn’t particularly concerned about him). Which could mean that Jack really was flirting with him.

After a long pause of Jack looking at the counter in front of him, Bitty decided to push a tiny bit.

“Are you and Parson friends?” he asked. “If you are, he must have been surprised that you baked a pie.”

Jack looked up, an almost guilty expression on his face. “Something like that,” he said. “We played together in juniors.”

Oh. _Oh._

“Which you already said wasn’t great for you,” Bitty said. “I’m sorry. Teach me to stick my foot in my big mouth.”

“No,” Jack said, even more distressed. “It’s not your fault. Kent and I … it’s not really my story to tell, but we were best friends and each other’s biggest rival and everything was mixed up, and, well, if you Googled me you probably know I have anxiety. I try to be pretty open about it.”

“I didn’t,” Bitty said. “Except for looking for a picture.”

Which now seemed mighty shallow.

“I ended up overdosing on my anxiety meds mixed with alcohol right before the draft the year Kent and I were both up the first time,” Jack said. “He went first and I went to rehab.”

“I’m sorry,” Bitty said. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, you didn’t,” Jack said. “It’s really not your fault. It was a long time ago, and Kent and I -- it’s water under the bridge for us now. And you didn’t push or pry and I didn’t have to say anything, but glossing over it would have felt like lying because, well, I like you. And if we keep doing this, you should know. Like I said, it seems like the rest of the world does.”

The words could have sounded bitter, but Jack said them with a resigned shrug.

“Jack, honey, you don’t owe me anything,” Bitty said. “Especially memories of things you’d rather keep private. I’m honored if you think enough of me that you want me to know, but I hope you didn’t feel like you had to.”

He paused.

“I guess maybe it’s like coming out,” he said. “You have to do it over and over, and you never know when is the right time, and sometimes you wish people would just know without you having to say anything, but it’s annoying when they assume.”

“Euh, maybe a little?” Jack said, shoulders still uncomfortably close to his ears. “I wouldn’t blame you for being curious. And if you tell your friends about me -- about this, the baking and everything -- if they’re hockey fans, and were then, they’ll have heard some things about me. I’d rather tell you the truth than have you hear the rumors.”

“I wasn’t planning on telling my friends,” Bitty said, suddenly guilty about his conversation with Lardo. “I understand if you want to keep this private. I mean, it’ll be hard, because you are Shitty’s favorite player, but --”

“You can tell your friends you taught me to make pie,” Jack said. “That’s not what I meant. My friends -- my team -- and my parents know all about you. It’s just hard because I never know what people think they know about me. Maybe that’s why you’re so different -- because when you emailed me back the first couple of times, all you knew was that I wanted to learn how to make pie.”

“How a person feels about pie _is_ very important, Mr. Zimmermann,” Bitty said. “But I hope that’s not all that makes me different.”

That won a smile, and Jack looked more relaxed again.

“Not the only thing, no,” he said.

Bitty was about to ask him to elaborate when his timer beeped.

“Time to take the foil off the edges,” he said. “Back in a moment.”

He hopped up, turned around to open the oven and bent down to get the collars off the edge of the pie. It was looking good, though maybe a bit more brown on the right. MooMaw’s oven always had run slightly hotter on one side. He rotated the pie to even it up before sitting back down.

“How’s yours looking?” he asked. “I had to turn mine around because one side of the oven is hotter.”

“Um, mine’s hot all the same,” Jack said, his cheeks pink from the heat of the oven. “I think it looks good.”

“Yeah, it looks like you have all top-of-the-line appliances,” Bitty said. “I’d love to bake in a kitchen like that.”

“Maybe someday you will,” Jack said.

“Sure, when I’m rich and famous from my cookbooks and TV show,” Bitty said. “A boy can dream.”

“No, I meant when this is over,” Jack said. “You said you wanted to come back to New England, right? So why can’t you come over and bake here? As helpful as this was, I’d bet it would be even better in person.”

“When this is over,” Bitty repeated. “I’d really like that, Jack.”

* * *

**Part 24**

After the pies were out of their ovens and cooling on their counters and they ended the call, Bitty started pulling out more ingredients.

Snickerdoodles for Lardo, gingersnaps for Dex, chocolate chocolate chips for Shitty, and now PBJ cookies for Jack. Maybe he could come up with something like a high-protein breakfast cookie for Jack, too.

As Bitty mixed dry ingredients, creamed butter and sugar, he thought about what it would be like to cook in Jack’s kitchen. He hadn’t wanted to ask Jack for a video tour, didn’t want to drool too obviously over the Viking range or Sub-Zero fridge, but he’d seen enough to know that it was all excellent equipment, with plenty of room to work and even natural light from wide windows. Too many apartments and condos, in Bitty’s opinion, hid their kitchens away in the interior of the unit, with no sunlight to warm the breakfast table.

Of course, Jack’s unit was probably big enough to wrap around the building, so there would be plenty of windows. Bitty would just have to wait to find out.

Until this was over.

Bitty didn’t really know what to make of Jack himself, either. From his admittedly limited experience of talking with Jack, and what his eyes told him from watching TV, Jack was a supremely gifted athlete, someone who could make his body do remarkable things, but had a harder time connecting to people. He was awkward and a little shy, but when he was determined to do something, he could overcome that to ask for help.

Of course he was determined. He would have to be, to have a career like he had. And the shyness … with his anxiety, it made sense. Jack seemed like he got along with his parents, but if they were both famous, that couldn’t have been easy either.

Bitty wanted to know if Jack really had been flirting with him. It felt like it, sometimes, but Jack hadn’t said anything that couldn't be interpreted any other way. Jack knew Bitty was gay, but apparently not until his teammates told him.

If Jack knew Bitty was gay and was flirting … Bitty felt like he shouldn’t even let his mind go there. It was different to daydream about Jack the gorgeous hockey player when he was entirely unattainable. Then, thinking about dating Jack was a harmless fantasy. Now, when Jack might be interested -- no, that was just setting himself up for disappointment. Jack wanted a baking friend. That was all. Bitty was more than happy to be that friend, even if he had to be careful about feasting his eyes too long on those biceps, or his rear end when he turned to pull the pie from the oven.

Once the cookies were distributed on cooling racks around the kitchen, he pulled his laptop over to check the traffic on the vlog.

There was an email there, from Jack.

_Hey, Bittle._

_I’m sorry for writing this in an email --_

Holy crap, was Jack breaking off their baking friendship before it even got started? Did someone get to him about what it would look like if he spent too much time with Bitty?

_\-- but it didn’t seem right for a text. I meant to tell you while we were talking, but then the timer went off and we moved on to other subjects and I didn’t know how to bring it back._

_I think telling people about my anxiety is a lot like coming out for you is now. I can’t assume new peopleI meet know about it, but lots of people do. I’ve given interviews and done PSAs._

_What I’m about to say is more like coming out the first time for you, I guess. I’m not straight. I’m bi. It’s something I’ve known since I knew what it was to have a crush on someone, but I don’t have a ton of experience dating guys. Not that I have all that much experience dating women either, but if I need to bring a date to an event or something, it’s easier to ask a woman to accompany me._

_Anyway, it didn’t seem fair to have the whole coming out conversation and not mention it, even if you are more public about your sexuality than I am._

_I know my agent would be upset with me for writing this in an email, and I know we’ve only known each other for a few days, but I feel like I can trust you with this._

_Jack_

Bitty stared at the screen. He got up, got a glass of water, sat down and stared at the screen some more.

He wanted to pick up his phone and call Lardo, to squeal with glee and wriggle in his chair as he crowed over actually having a chance with the person he’d started thinking of as the man of his dreams.

He wanted to call Shitty, to tell him how he never expected to be someone people came out to, not the way they did with Shitty, and look what had happened. Jack was far from the first person to come out to him; he had a whole file full of letters from youth hockey players who identified as gay or bi. This was definitely a new feeling.

Bitty read the email again, looking for clues to how Jack felt.

It definitely read like this was Jack explaining himself, explaining why he had been so interested in Bitty. But he never said he wanted to date Bitty. What he did say was why he didn't date men. Associating with Bitty would only start rumors about Jack.

But Jack didn’t owe Bitty anything, and if he wanted to drop Bitty he could have without so much as a wave goodbye. He didn’t have to say any of this. Unless there was a reason he wanted Bitty to know.

_Thank you for trusting me with this. Of course I won’t share anything you want kept private with anyone, and I truly do understand why you need to keep it private._

_Your cookies are done and will be in the mail tomorrow._

_Lmk if you want to bake together again. You have my number._

_Happy baking!_

_Bitty_


	9. Chapter 9

**Part 25**

There was no doubt that the cherry pie Jack made with Bittle was the best looking pie he’d made so far.

Maybe it was Bittle’s advice on the crust, maybe it was Jack being even more careful than usual rolling it out and weaving the lattice, maybe it was just that the dark red of the cherries made such a striking contrast to the gold of the crust.

Bittle’s pie had looked like the crust was the same color as his hair when he took it out of the oven -- he was wearing oven mitts with rabbits printed on them -- and held it up for Jack to see.

Jack thought his own pie was about the same color, but it was hard to tell over a video chat. He would have liked to put the two pies side by side to see.

That would mean being in the same room. Jack would have liked that, too.

Crisse, he was getting ridiculous. He didn’t even know if Bittle would be interested in being more than friends.

(Bittle had looked up pictures of him on the internet.)

Bittle always responded quickly when Jack messaged him, but he’d done the same before he knew who Jack was. He was warm and friendly and maybe a little flirty while they baked. (He had called Jack “honey.” Twice.)

But that was the same persona Bittle had in his YouTube videos. He might have even called his stand mixer “honey” once.

Bittle’s stand mixer was probably important to him, though. Bittle seemed to bake like he breathed: constantly, and without even thinking.

But Bittle also played hockey, and played well. He clearly had the respect and support of his team if they made him captain. 

Jack wondered what it would be like to line up across from Bittle in a game. He didn’t look like he’d be intimidating. Maybe he would be one of those players who tried to distract their opponent with friendly chatter, keep them confused and keep their eyes off the puck until it was too late.

Jack wondered if he could catch him on skates.

Then Jack thought about what it would be like to play with Bittle on his line, someone who could streak ahead to catch a pass, someone with the agility to get around defensemen and make space for himself because the defenders wouldn’t want to commit too early.

He thought about heading up ice on a two-on-one with Bittle. That would be fun.

But most of all, Jack wondered what it would be like to have a date with Bittle, to have Bittle’s attention all to himself, to take his hand (Would it be callused? Probably) and maybe put an arm around his shoulders. Jack knew Bittle was smaller than he was, but how much? If Bittle was standing in front of him, how high would the top of his head come?

Jack was getting ahead of himself. Bittle seemed to like him, yes, but Jack wasn’t sure Bittle would want to date him, and Bittle probably wouldn’t do anything that would make it obvious if he thought Jack was straight.

Which he probably did, because they had that whole coming-out conversation and Jack hadn’t said anything. He’d meant to, but then the buzzer went off, and Bittle turned around, and Jack was distracted.

It would be too weird (too much pressure) to call Bittle and tell him. Better to write it. And for something like this, Jack wanted a keyboard, not the tiny touchscreen on his phone.

Once he’d composed the email and hit send, he went down to shoot some pucks at the net. Then he called Marty.

“I made another pie,” he said. “Cherry. You want me to drop it off? Only I want to have one slice first.”

“Gotta make sure it tastes good?” Marty asked. 

“Something like that,” Jack said. “It’s the first time I made this recipe and Bittle will want to know how it turned out.”

“So it’s Bittle now?” Marty said. “You must be getting close.”

“Shut up,” Jack said. “What else would I call him?”

“Eric, maybe?”

Jack shrugged. “Bittle sounds right.”

“Whatever,” Marty said. “Sure, we’ll take the pie. I can’t promise to eat it.”

“No, don’t eat it if it sucks,” Jack said. “If it’s that bad I won’t drop it off. But Bittle baked it with me, over Skype, so it’ll probably be good.”

Jack cut his own slice and savored it before wrapping the rest, grabbing a mask and keys, and driving to Marty’s house.

He got out, put the pie on the porch, and stepped back before texting Marty.

The whole family came to the door.

“Thanks, Jack,” Gabby said, picking up the pie. “Looks delicious. You’ll have to introduce us to your baker.”

Jack hesitated. Maybe Marty hadn’t explained that he’d never met Bittle?

“Mr. Jack! Mr. Jack!” Noelle squealed. “Can I have a piggyback ride?”

“Not now, chou,” Jack said. “But soon, okay?”

* * *

**Part 26**

By the time Jack got home, there was a text from Marty.

_The pie is amazing. Gabby had an idea. Call me._

There was also a picture of Noelle and Emilie. Emilie had a wide smile, and Noelle’s face was stained red.

He ignored the text in favor of checking his email, where there was a response from Bittle. Bittle didn’t comment on Jack being bi specifically, other than to thank Jack for his trust and assure Jack of his discretion, but Jack would have been surprised if he did.

How did people do this? It was hard enough to ask someone out when you could approach them in real life -- so hard that Jack really hadn’t ever done it.

There was no going out with Kent. There was staying in with Kent, hiding in locked hotel rooms and in one another’s billet houses when no one was home. And then Jack managed to date one girl for three months without even realizing it. He thought they were just hanging out. And when he needed a date, needed to show up somewhere with someone on his arm, he usually let one of the guys set him up. Sure, maybe he had to call and ask for the date, but by the time someone passed him a woman’s phone number, she’d already agreed. Calling to ask her was a formality.

But he hadn’t met anyone whom he liked, anyone who captured his imagination, like Bittle.

Who reminded Jack in his email that Jack had his phone number. That was probably an invitation to use it.

Jack started to text, then stopped. A call would be better. Wouldn’t it? They could have a conversation in real time, and Jack could hear Bittle’s tone of voice and not just read his words.

What if he called and Bittle was busy? What if he was sitting down to dinner with his grandmother? Would Bittle even answer then? He probably shouldn’t. It would be rude to answer the phone during dinner. Wouldn’t it? But if Jack called and Bittle didn’t answer, then it might mean that Bittle saw who was calling and just didn’t want to talk to him. 

That didn’t make any sense. Even if Jack wasn’t sure Bittle was attracted to him, he was pretty confident that Bittle liked him in a friendly sort of way. He’d offered to bake with him again, after all.

Jack decided to split the difference.

_Are you busy? I wanted to call you._

As soon as the text was sent, Jack cursed himself for making the whole thing seem too important and serious.

But Bittle was typing back.

_I forgot how early MooMaw likes to eat supper. We’re all done and the kitchen is clean, so please save me from a long night of reality TV._

Jack pressed the call button while he was defrosting one of the dinners he had left from his meal service.

“Hey, Jack,” Bittle said, the drawl somehow more pronounced when Jack could hear but not see him. “How was the rest of your day? How was the pie?”

“It was great,” Jack said. “I had a slice and then took the rest to Marty’s house for his family. We did a porch hand-off, and they all came outside. It was good to see the girls.”

“Yeah?” Bittle said. “It sounds like you’re close to them.”

“I’ve known the girls since they were born,” Jack said. “I lived with Marty and Gabby my first year in the league, when Gabby was pregnant with Emilie. I think the Falcs management wanted to make sure I wouldn’t get into trouble.”

“And did you?” Bittle asked. “Get into trouble, that is?”

“Only if playing too much Boggle is getting into trouble,” Jack said.

“Boggle?”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “We played a lot when we were home. I don’t know why. But I got really good.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Bittle said. “Never play Boggle with Jack Zimmermann. What did you think of the pie?”

“It was really good,” Jack said. “But -- don’t take this the wrong way, but I think I like apple better than cherry? Only I haven’t done as good of a job with the apple ones. I’d like to do better.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Bitty said. “I’m partial to blueberry myself, even though down here peach is the be-all-and-end-all, and I love a good pecan pie, too.”

“What was that?”

“I like pecan pie?”

“You mean pecan.”

“I most certainly don’t,” Bittle said, but there was giggle behind it.

Bittle took a breath and said, “You want to make an apple pie our next project?”

“If you want,” Jack said. “I still have apples. What else do I need?”

“You have cinnamon?” Bittle said. “Maybe a little nutmeg?”

“Um, yes, I have cinnamon,” Jack said. “I’ve been using that.”

“How old is it?” 

“I don’t know,” Jack said. “Since I moved in? Four, five years? Six maybe?”

“Can you get groceries tomorrow?” Bittle asked. “And we can bake the next day? Treat yourself to new cinnamon and nutmeg, and make sure you have a lemon. Or at least lemon juice. I’ll text Mama when we’re done and ask her to bring me apples when she does the shopping tomorrow.”

“Wait -- weren’t you supposed to be celebrating with your parents tonight? What happened?

“It’s raining,” Bittle said. “We’ll do it tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Jack said. “I should go. Marty wanted me to text him. Talk to you tomorrow?”

“Of course,” Bittle said. “Talk to you then.”

* * *

**Part 27**

Since Jack didn’t have plans to bake with Bittle the next day, he got up, drank a protein shake, did his longer workout and had breakfast.

He went online to confirm his groceries were going to be delivered later today, and then he sat to read for an hour.

That was all fine, but after an hour it wasn’t time for lunch and he didn’t want to sit still any more. This, he realized, was the time he usually spent baking.

He’d already talked to Marty and Gabby about their idea, which was doing some kind of a bake-off for the Falcs, with everyone recording themselves, and then having the team post it online. Bittle could be involved as an advisor or judge or something like that. It would offer fans something to watch, something to make the players human, like the pr staff always wanted, give the guys something to do, and give Bittle exposure. 

“But if Bittle’s the judge, you’re not allowed to win,” Marty said. “Not if you’ve been getting private lessons.”

Jack wondered how he made online baking lessons sound risqué.

He pulled his camera out and took a picture of the city from his balcony. It wasn’t as empty as it was in the first days of the lockdown; the nicer weather had brought out more dog-walkers, people with strollers and even couples walking hand-in-hand. It was a far cry from the bustle of a regular workday, though.

He considered posting the picture to his Instagram -- the one no one was supposed to know was his -- and decided against it. If someone did know, they’d be able to figure out where he lived too easily. Besides, he still had at least an hour to kill.

Instead, he grabbed a mask and a ballcap and took his camera outside.

Between the mask and the cap pulled low over his eyes, no one gave him a second look as he set off down the sidewalk. He stopped first outside his favorite coffee shop, first taking a straight-on shot of the sign on the door: “Closed because of the coronavirus. Stay safe, everyone.”

Then he tried to get a picture at an angle that would show the interior, with its chairs upturned on the tables, along with the reflection of car and foot traffic on the plate glass window. He wasn’t sure it worked -- he’d have to look on his computer screen at home for the detail -- but he thought it made a nice juxtaposition that showed what it was like for people who were healthy right now. The days were utterly normal and tedious, boring even, but the situation did not feel normal at all. It was hard to feel heroic when the only thing anyone could tell people like him to do was stay home. Maybe he should have stayed inside, but it felt good to be out in the sun. The temperature was about 15, and a light jacket was enough. Besides, getting out for fresh air from time to time was allowed.

He headed closer to the river, stopping to get a shot of a kid playing tennis in an empty parking lot against a brick wall, and, a block further on, an abandoned tricycle locked inside a closed playground, behind yellow tape and a sign warning families to keep out.

People were on the pavement by the river, but alone or in pairs. Jack tried to get a picture that would express what it looked like, a dozen people all alone together, outside to witness the trees and plants coming back to life. He also snapped a quick selfie of himself in a mask, the river in the background.

When he got home, he chose a handful of his favorite shots to upload to Instagram. He also sent them to Bittle. He added a question: _What’s it like where you are?_

He had to wait a while for his answer, but it came before he was done taking 150 shots at the net in the garage.

_I haven’t left the house or the yard since my mother’s been running errands. The leaves on our trees are all the way out now, and we have more flowers blooming. These are some pictures of the yard, but nowhere near as good as yours. Although in your selfie, you look like you’re about to rob a bank._

Bittle had added some photos of a wide backyard with a couple of white flowering trees, bushes with pink and yellow flowers, some flower beds with tulips that were almost done. It looked like there were lilac bushes at the end of the yard.

The patio had a table with chairs clustered around it, and a couple of lounge chairs at the other side. There was also a picture of a front porch with a swing and pots of flowering plants.

_Are your parents still coming to celebrate tonight?_ Jack asked.

_I don’t think so,_ Bittle replied. _My mama says I’m running her off her feet with all the shopping, but I don’t think she minds much. Gets her out of the house while Coach is trying to teach gym over e-learning. Anyway, I think we’ll get together for my birthday in a couple of weeks and do it then. We still have some time before when graduation was supposed to be, but my thesis was the big deal. Some of my classes ended early, and the rest have gone pass/fail with no finals. It’s all good._

Jack felt vaguely disgruntled on Bittle’s behalf. Someone should make a point of celebrating his achievement. Bittle missed the end of his hockey season -- the end of his hockey career -- and any of the rituals that probably went with that. He was missing the end of his classes. He wouldn’t get a graduation ceremony, and all his plans for when school ended got crumpled up and tossed away.

It wasn’t just Bittle, of course, it was everyone who was graduating this year, but Bittle was the one Jack knew. It didn’t matter anyway. There was really nothing he could do, besides send a card and maybe a small gift.

Or maybe not. He knew it was cheesy, but he knew who to call for help.

“Maman, I want to send Bittle something,” he said. “Get Papa too. I want to send him everything he would need for a graduation party. Balloons and decorations, what else?”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look for the sequel to begin posting next week!

**Part 28**

“Dicky! Dicky, wake up!”

Bitty sat up and rubbed his eyes. It was morning for sure, but at least a couple of hours earlier than he planned to get up. 

But there was MooMaw in the bedroom doorway, calling his name.

“MooMaw? You okay?”

His voice was still raspy, eyes still bleary, but she looked fine. Wasn’t having any trouble talking, either.

“You’ve got to come see this!” MooMaw said. “Oh, I have to call your mother!”

She seemed more excited than alarmed, but something had riled her up.

“Wait, come see what?” Bitty asked, leaning down with the covers around his waist to grab his shorts off the floor. MooMaw took that as her cue to head back towards the living room.

He pulled on his shorts, grabbed a T-shirt from the basket near the door, and tugged it over his head as he followed her. The front door was standing open, and MooMaw was already on the porch … which was festooned with an arch of red and white balloons. Mylar balloons reading “2020” floated in front.

MooMaw had the handset for her old cordless landline phone in her hand, talking a mile a minute.

“The balloons are beautiful, Suzanne. You really outdid yourself,” MooMaw was saying. “Now I see why you insisted on waiting and celebrating Dicky finishing college on his birthday. This is just lovely!”

MooMaw stopped talking, looked at Bitty, looked back at the balloons.

“What do you mean you didn’t do it?” she said. “Who else could have? Well, it is something else. You and Rick will have to come see it.”

Bitty’s eyes had gravitated to the large cardboard box that sat in the middle of the top step.

A card taped to the top said, “Eric Bittle.”

“It’s that man of yours, isn’t it?” MooMaw said, the phone (hopefully off) tucked under her arm.

“I don’t know for sure,” Bitty said, still staring at the unopened card, even though he was almost certain who had made all this fuss over him. “And he’s not my man.”

“Pshaw,” MooMaw said. “You spend more time talking to him than you do to me, and he’s a thousand miles away. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. You talk to me plenty. But you still manage to talk to him more.”

“I told you, MooMaw, we’ve been arranging the Falconers’ bake off,” Bitty said. “If it goes right, this could be a huge thing for me, and we’ve had to figure out how to do it. And Jack is still working on perfecting his own pies.”

Jack had come amazingly far as a baker in the past three weeks, Bitty thought. He’d like to take credit for it, but he thought most of it was due to Jack’s diligence and commitment to learning the craft. If the dough for a crust didn’t work out, he’d start over instead of forcing it and winding up with a cardboard crust or abandoning it all together. He took Bitty’s advice well, but wasn’t afraid to experiment a bit. He had indeed acquired a pastry blender and a scraper, and learned how to use them. His kitchen now also had muffin tins, cookie sheets and non-stick silicone baking mats.

Bitty had come to understand that Jack liked simple, classic flavors, sweet with a bit of spice or just a hint of tartness, and tailored recipes to his taste. 

They had also worked out a three-video series for the Falcs bake-off, in which Bitty would both give advice and judge, and Jack would be a sort of assistant and color commentator. Georgia Martin (who may have already gotten a pie in the mail) was over the moon at Jack’s willingness to participate.

Bitty might not be sure exactly what he and Jack were doing -- Long-distance dating, despite never having set eyes on one another? Developing a supportive friendship as two queer athletes in a homophobic sport? -- but it was fun. Bitty suspected it would be more fun in person, but the situation was what it was.

And there was a big box with a card on top.

Bitty opened it and saw “Congrats to the grad” printed on top. Inside, the cramped handwriting said,

_Dear Bittle,_

_I wasn’t sure whether to get a birthday card or a graduation card. I went with graduation because you did give me permission to send a card for that. Also, you won’t graduate from college again, but you will have more birthdays we can celebrate together._

_The box has everything you need for a graduation party, from a Samwell backdrop for a Zoom call to champagne and glasses. There’s a recording of my dad giving graduation speeches, too._

_The food is up to you, though._

_Don’t think of those as gifts for you -- all the seniors on your team got the same things. We figured you might want to celebrate together. But there are a couple of gifts for you that no one else got._

_Congrats, and happy birthday!_

_Jack_

“This boy,” Bitty whispered to himself, tearing open the box. There was a Samwell flag to use as a backdrop, and graduation-themed plates and napkins, a bottle of champagne and four plastic champagne flutes, and a small flash drive.

Nestled in the bottom were a briefcase with ERB engraved on the clasp, and a pen set.

Bitty was dialing before he even got everything out.

“Jack!” he said. “You didn’t have to do that! It must have cost you an arm and a leg! What possessed you --”

“You deserve to be celebrated,’ Jack cut in. “You accomplished a lot over the past four years, and especially this year, and that shoudn’t be pushed aside. And last I looked, all my limbs are present and accounted for.”

“But all the seniors --”

“They didn’t all get the balloons, or the gifts,” Jack said. “Just the box and the suggestion that they touch base with you to set a time to meet online.”

“But how did you even -- I mean, everyone’s name is on the website, but --”

“You know my mother went to Samwell? She’s a very generous donor,” Jack said. “And when a generous donor -- who is married to a hockey Hall of Famer -- calls the hockey coach and says they’d like to send graduation boxes to the graduating seniors on the team, addresses are not a problem.”

“I guess not,” Bitty said faintly. “Wait -- my phone’s buzzing. It’s Wicks. He wants to know where the box came from, and when we’re all gonna be online.”

“You were the only one to get a card, too,” Jack said.

“I swear you’re going to be the death of me,” Bitty said. “You know my mama’s gonna want me to dress up in my cap and gown now?”

“Send me a picture,” Jack said.

* * *

**Part 29**

Bitty stood on the porch in front of the door.

His mother and father were on the front walk, staring up at him. He was uncomfortably aware that in this position, he was framed by the balloon arch.

“Of course we have to get pictures,” his mother said. “If your young man went to all this effort, he should see what it looks like. And your cap and gown were mailed to the house not three days ago.”

She stepped forward, placed the package she held on the middle stair, and stepped back.

“He’s not my young man, Mama,” Bitty said. “I told you, we’ve never even met in person.”

His mother looked at him in disbelief. 

“You mean to tell me that this … this hockey player did all this and there’s nothing between you?”

“Not _nothing_ ,” Bitty said. “We started emailing last month. He happened to see me on YouTube, and he tried to make a pie, and he had questions.”

“And on the strength of a few weeks correspondence, he did all this?” she persisted.

“Sort of,” Bitty said. “I mean, we’ve been talking for a while, on the phone and over video chat. He got this team to set up a baking thing for the players, and they’re going to push it out over their social media channels. It’s a big deal for me.”

“Good for you, son,” Coach said.

“So you don’t have a boyfriend you haven’t told us about?” his mother continued.

“No, ma’am,” Bitty said. Not that he wouldn’t have liked to have Jack as his boyfriend. Jack was gorgeous, of course. That went without saying. But he was also kind and serious and sweet and a bit of a dork. He had a sly sense of humor that snuck up on Bitty, making him snicker at the most unexpected times.

Of course he’d like Jack for a boyfriend. By now, he was pretty sure Jack felt the same, even if he didn’t quite understand the attraction. But they’d never said as much out loud. They talked about what it would be like when they could see each other, about how Bitty’s baking equipment would take over Jack’s kitchen and how Jack wanted to find out if Bitty could actually beat him in a race on the ice. Bitty supposed Jack wanted to meet Bitty in person to find out if the attraction translated. Maybe he was worried Bitty had horrible breath or something. 

“When there’s something about my personal life I want to tell you, I will,” Bitty told his parents. “But for now, we’re friends working on a baking and social media project, and he knew I just finished school and we didn’t get a chance to go to hockey playoffs and he said I deserved to be celebrated. And he sent boxes to all the seniors on my team.”

Bitty’s mother was looking at something on her phone. 

“If you’re sure,” she said. “It’s too bad. He is good looking. You know, I think your Aunt Connie had a poster of his father on her bedroom wall when we were young. He looks a lot like him.”

“I know,” Bitty said, because he had broken down and Googled Bad Bob Zimmermann. “His parents helped him pull this off. And they apparently recorded graduation speeches for us.”

Bitty hesitated, and said, “We’re doing an online party -- the other seniors and me -- tonight at eight. I can send you a link of you want.”

“Will Jack be there?” his mother asked.

“No,” Bitty said. “It conflicts with his team’s game night.”

He had promised to record the team’s reactions to Jack’s parents speeches, but his parents didn’t need to know that.

“We’re still planning to have the family over for your graduation when we can,” Coach said. “We didn’t mean to overlook you.”

“I know, Coach,” Bitty said, even though that came to as news to him. 

“If he can, Zimmermann is welcome to come,” Coach said. “I can’t imagine the cost of a plane ticket is much of a barrier to him.”

“Maybe,” Bitty said. “He might not be comfortable flying. We don’t even know when that will be.”

Or whether Bitty would still be in Georgia. He and Jack had started talking about whether it would make sense for Bitty to move back to New England sooner rather than later. 

Bitty had been pretty effectively quarantined for the duration, and if he drove himself, without stopping overnight, it shouldn’t be too risky. He could bring food and use gloves to get gas and pull off at the side of the road when he had to pee.

But that would mean leaving MooMaw alone, and then there was the problem of where he would stay. Jack had offered his guest room, but Bitty thought he should be quarantined for two weeks after he got there before risking a meeting with Jack, and Shitty and Lardo didn’t have a guest room.

“Well, we’ll see what happens,” his mother said. “Just so he knows he’s welcome. Now go get that cap and gown on. Nice clothes under it, too. We have plenty of time -- we can talk to your grandmother while you get ready.”

Jack had sent a thumbs up when Bitty sent the pictures, including one with the briefcase and one with him in cap, gown and Samwell-red mask.

Bitty was in front of the Samwell flag when he let the seniors and their families into the video conference that evening. 

Shitty and Lardo had come too, and Ransom and Holster. His mother and Coach were there to watch, microphones muted.

MooMaw had made hors d'oeuvres and Bitty made cupcakes and he had the bottle of champagne ready to open. 

The guys -- and Bitty’s mother -- gasped when the video of Alicia Montgomery popped up She reminisced about her days at Samwell, and said how sorry she was that they didn’t get to say goodbye to the well and have senior day.

“Remember to drink deep from the well of life,”she said.

Then Bob appeared, dressed in his Habs jersey. He compared graduation to winning the Stanley Cup, which, well, might be giving graduation too much credit.

He encouraged the graduates to aim high and work to achieve their goals.

“Remember, as a good friend of mine used to say, you miss all the shots you don’t take.”

Bitty pressed the button for the music file, and the strains of “Pomp and Circumstance,” tinny and thin, rose from his laptop speakers.

Bitty and everyone else popped their champagne and drank.

* * *

**Part 30**

Bitty closed his laptop and groaned. His eyes were gritty and his neck ached. But he thought he was finally done.

Why had he thought it was a good idea to do a Great British Bake Off-style event with a dozen hockey players (baker’s dozen, including Jack, who wasn’t competing)?

He was no Mary Berry or Paul Hollywood or even Prue Leith, and Jack was not Mel or Sue or Noel or Sandy. Most of all, the players were not the top amateur bakers in the country.

Given the circumstances, Bitty couldn’t even taste their food, which meant Jack had to be a judge, collecting the entries from doorsteps and lobbies across the greater Providence area. He would bring them back, sit in his kitchen on a video chat with Bitty, and hold the entry up for Bitty’s inspection. Then he would slice into it or break it apart so Bitty could see the inside before he finally took a bite.

“It’s good,” Jack had said, words muffled through a mouthful of cookie, for the first three entrants in the first round. Bitty had to stop him and ask for more description.

“Is it tender? Crunchy? Crumbly? Is it sweet? Too sweet? Can you taste ingredients besides sugar and butter?”

“I don’t know,” Jack had answered. “Should I?”

Once the judging was done, they would do a video conference with all the bakers and Bitty would announce the decision. 

The players had been instructed to bake a batch of their favorite classic-style cookies, on camera, with Bitty watching and answering questions, but not volunteering advice. Jack could volunteer as much advice as he wanted, but he’d never made any sort of cookie before last week.

The Falcs PR department had sent some basic ring lights and external mics to the players to help, but the resulting videos were still amateurish, which was supposed to be part of their charm.

Bitty had scheduled the baking sessions three players at a time, and he had some good reaction shots of himself looking horrified as Tater tried to cream — by hand — unsoftened butter and cream cheese together for his kolacky, and Meyer dug his measuring cup straight into the flour. 

Jack has shaken his head and said, “That’s not how you do that,” so everyone on the call could hear, causing Meyer, Poots and Grimaldi all to look up and say, “What?”

Neither Jack nor Bitty (or, apparently, Thirdy) had realized Thirdy rolled his ginger snaps in salt instead of sugar until Jack took a bite during the judging session and quickly ducked off camera to spit it out.

At the end of the cookie-baking sessions, which took a week to get through, Bitty and Jack had narrowed the field to six. Bitty then told them all to produce twelve cupcakes.

“You only need to give Jack two,” Bitty said. “Save the rest for your families or your neighbors or whoever will take them. But you need to show us the whole dozen, with icing, on camera so we know you made them.”

The group did better than Bitty had hoped with the cupcakes. Well, all except Marty, who got distracted by his daughter and put in twice as much baking powder as the recipe called for, creating a chocolate mess. 

“The challenge wasn’t mudpies,” Jack said when Marty held the pan up to the camera.

“Shut up,” Marty said. “We’re only doing this for you.”

Others overfilled their cups, making their cupcakes merge, or over-beat the batter, leading to concave cupcakes.

“That’s the way they’re supposed to be,” Fitz said to the camera. “Like cups for the frosting.”

In the end, Fitz’s cupcakes were more frosting than cake. He did not move on to the final.

The three finalists had been Tater, Snowy and, to everyone’s surprise, Poots. They were given the ultimate challenge: producing a homemade double-crust fruit pie, their choice of flavor.

Snowy chose cherry, Poots went with peach (“Isn’t Bitty in Georgia?” he asked), and Tater went for blueberry.

For the final, Bitty did a crust tutorial for all of them before they started, which Jack thought was generous. All of them produced pies better than Jack’s first effort, but not quite up to the standard of the ones he had made with Bitty baking along with him on the computer.

Tater and Snowy attempted lattices and Poots tried to do hockey-stick shaped cutouts on the top. Jack thought they looked more like boomerangs.

In the end, Tater took top honors. “Now I bring pie to you, Zimmboni,” he crowed.

Bitty had ended more than 30 hours of video into three half-hour installments and sent them to the Falcs PR department for approval. 

Then he started making the care packages for all the players who participated and all the staff involved, because really, no one had to do this.

“You know they all really like you,” Bitty told Jack, chatting while he baked and Jack sat in Providence, flicking through his photos. “I’m pretty sure they agreed because you asked.”

“They agreed because George asked,” Jack said. “And they’re bored silly.”

“Silly is right,” Bitty said. “I pity whoever has to clean their kitchens.”

“They really liked you, though,” Jack said. “They keep asking me if they can meet you, you know, when you come back north.”

“Hmmm, let me think, do I want to hang out with members of a professional hockey team who might actually respect my baking?” Bitty said. “But why ask you? They all have my contact information.”

“Um, theymightthinkwe’retogether?” Jack mumbled.

“What was that, sweetpea?” Bitty asked, stopping to peer at the screen. 

Jack was looking down at his keyboard instead of whatever photo was up in the open window.

“They might think we’re together,” Jack said, looking up at Bitty’s face with those incredibly blue eyes. He looked almost sad.

“I didn’t say we were, and nobody came out and asked, so it would have been weird if I came out and said we weren’t dating,” Jack continued. “But I think that’s what they thought, because they can tell I like you. Sorry.”

“Sorry?” Bitty asked, suddenly worried. “Why sorry?”

“In case you wanted … something else,” Jack said. “Since we never …”

“Of course I like you too,” Bitty said. “I mean, I like you as a friend, too, you Canadian moose, but I’d love to date you. I thought we were just waiting to say something until we meet in person to see if we actually have chemistry.”

“Are you worried about that?” Jack said. “Like … that I’ll smell like a moose or something?”

“Remember, I’m a hockey player too,” Bitty said. “Or I was. I know you smell like a moose when you get off the ice. But I’m pretty sure you clean up well. The bigger question is whether you can put up with me.”

“Not worried,” Jack said. “So … want to try this? How hard could it be?”


End file.
